THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


Wf 


AND  EYEN  NOW 


By  the  same  Author 

THE  WORKS  OF  MAX  BEERBOHM 

MORE 

YET  AGAIN 

A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 
ZULEIKA  DOBSON 
SEVEN  MEN 

CARICATURES  OF  TWENTY-FIVE 

GENTLEMEN 
THE  POET'S  CORNER 
THE  SECOND  CHILDHOOD  OF  JOHN 

BULL 
A  BOOK  OF  CARICATURES 
FIFTY  CARICATURES 


AND  EVEN  NOW 

BY 

MAX  BEERBOHM 


E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

New  York 


Copyright,  1921, 
By  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


First  Printing  .  .  September,  1931 
Second  Printing  .  December,  19S1 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

MY  WIFE 


NOTE 

1  offer  here  some  of  the  essays  that  I  have  written  in 
the  course  of  the  past  ten  years.  While  I  was  collecting 
them  and  {quite  patiently)  reading  them  again,  I  found 
that  a  few  of  them  were  in  direct  reference  to  the  moments 
at  which  they  were  severally  composed.  It  was  clear  that 
these  must  have  their  dates  affixed  to  them.  And  for  sake 
of  uniformity  I  have  dated  all  the  others,  and,  doing  so, 
have  thought  I  need  not  exclude  all  such  topical  remarks 
as  in  them  too  were  uttered,  nor  throw  into  a  past  tense 
such  of  those  remarks  as  I  have  retained.  Perhaps  a  book 
of  essays  ought  to  seem  as  if  it  had  been  written  a  few 

days  before  publication.     On  the  other  hand but  this 

is  a  Note,  not  a  Preface. 

M.  B. 

Rapallo,  19-20. 


CONTENTS 


A  RELIC  (1918)  ..... 

'  HOW    SHALL   I    WORD   IT?  '    (1910) 

MOBLED    KING    (1911)  .... 

KOLNIYAT8CH  (1913)  .... 

NO.  2.      THE   PINES   (1914) 

A  LETTER   THAT  WAS  NOT  WRITTEN  (1914)      . 

BOOKS  WITHIN  BOOKS   (1914)       . 

THE    GOLDEN    DRUGGET    (1918)     . 

HOSTS   AND    GUESTS    (1918) 

A  POINT  TO  BE  REMEMBERED  BY  VERY  EMINENT  MEN  (1918) 

SERVANTS    (1918)      ..... 

GOING   OUT  FOR   A   WALK   (1918) 

QUIA   IMPERFECTUM    (1918) 

SOMETHING   DEFEASIBLE    (1919) 

'a   CLERGYMAN'    (1918)        .... 

THE   CRIME    (1920)  .... 

IN   HOMES   UNBLEST   (1920)  .  .  . 

WILLIAM   AND  MARY   (1920) 

ON   SPEAKING   FRENCH    (1919)      . 

LAUGHTER    (1920)   ..... 


FAOil 
1 

13 

27 

47 

55 

89 

99 

115 

125 

147 

161 

187 

195 

219 

231 

243 

255 

265 

287 

301 


IX 


A  RELIC 


A    RELIC 

1918. 

YESTERDAY  I  found  in  a  cupboard  an  old, 
small,  battered  portmanteau  which,  by 
the  initials  on  it,  I  recognised  as  my  own 
property.  The  lock  appeared  to  have  been  forced. 
I  dimly  remembered  having  forced  it  myself,  with 
a  poker,  in  my  hot  youth,  after  some  journey  in 
which  I  had  lost  the  key;  and  this  act  of  violence 
was  probably  the  reason  why  the  trunk  had  so 
long  ago  ceased  to  travel.  I  unstrapped  it,  not 
without  dust;  it  exhaled  the  faint  scent  of  its  long 
closure;  it  contained  a  tweed  suit  of  Late  Victorian 
pattern,  some  bills,  some  letters,  a  collar-stud,  and 
— something  which,  after  I  had  wondered  for  a 
moment  or  two  what  on  earth  it  was,  caused  me 
suddenly  to  murmur,  '  Down  below,  the  sea  rustled 
to  and  fro  over  the  shingle.' 

Strange  that  these  words  had,  year  after  long 
year,  been  existing  in  some  obscure  cell  at  the  back 
of  my  brain ! — forgotten  but  all  the  while  existing, 
like  the  trunk  in  that  cupboard.  What  released 
them,  what  threw  open  the  cell  door,  was  nothing 
but  the  fragment  of  a  fan;    just  the  butt-end  of 


4  AND  EVEN  NOW 

an  inexpensive  fan.  The  sticks  are  of  white  bone, 
dipped  together  with  a  semicircular  ring  that  is 
not  silver.  They  are  neatly  oval  at  the  base,  but 
variously  jagged  at  the  other  end.  The  longest  of 
them  measures  perhaps  two  inches.  Ring  and  all, 
they  have  no  market  value;  for  a  farthing  is  the 
least  coin  in  our  currency.  And  yet,  though  I  had 
so  long  forgotten  them,  for  me  they  are  not  worth- 
less. They  touch  a  chord.  .  .  Lest  this  confession 
raise  false  hopes  in  the  reader,  I  add  that  I  did  not 
know  their  owner. 

I  did  once  see  her,  and  in  Normandy,  and  by 
moonlight,  and  her  name  was  Angelique.  She  was 
graceful,  she  was  even  beautiful.  I  was  but  nine- 
teen years  old.  Yet  even  so  I  cannot  say  that  she 
impressed  me  favourably.  I  was  seated  at  a  table 
of  a  cafe  on  the  terrace  of  a  casino.  I  sat  facing 
the  sea,  with  my  back  to  the  casino.  I  sat  listening 
to  the  quiet  sea,  which  I  had  crossed  that  morning. 
The  hour  was  late,  there  were  few  people  about. 
I  heard  the  swing-door  behind  me  flap  open,  and 
was  aware  of  a  sharp  snapping  and  crackling  sound 
as  a  lady  in  white  passed  quickly  by  me.  I  stared 
at  her  erect  thin  back  and  her  agitated  elbows.  A 
short  fat  man  passed  in  pursuit  of  her — an  elderly 
man  in  a  black  alpaca  jacket  that  billowed.  I  saw 
that  she  had  left  a  trail  of  little  white  things  on  the 
asphalt.  I  watched  the  efforts  of  the  agonised 
short  fat  man  to  overtake  her  as  she  swept  wraith- 


A  RELIC  5 

like  away  to  the  distant  end  of  the  terrace.  What 
was  the  matter?  What  had  made  her  so  spectacu- 
larly angry  with  him?  The  three  or  four  waiters 
of  the  cafe  were  exchanging  cynical  smiles  and 
shrugs,  as  waiters  will.  I  tried  to  feel  cynical,  but 
was  thrilled  with  excitement,  with  wonder  and 
curiosity.  The  woman  out  yonder  had  doubled 
on  her  tracks.  She  had  not  slackened  her  furious 
speed,  but  the  man  waddlingly  contrived  to  keep 
pace  with  her  now.  With  every  moment  they 
became  more  distinct,  and  the  prospect  that  they 
would  presently  pass  by  me,  back  into  the  casino, 
gave  me  that  physical  tension  which  one  feels  on 
a  wayside  platform  at  the  imminent  passing  of  an 
express.  In  the  rushingly  enlarged  vision  I  had  of 
them,  the  wrath  on  the  woman's  face  was  even 
more  saliently  the  main  thing  than  I  had  supposed 
it  would  be.  That  very  hard  Parisian  face  must 
have  been  as  white  as  the  powder  that  coated  it. 
*Ecoute,  Angelique,'  gasped  the  perspiring  bour- 
geois, '^coute,  je  te  supplie — '  The  swing-door 
received  them  and  was  left  swinging  to  and  fro. 
I  wanted  to  follow,  but  had  not  paid  for  my  bock. 
I  beckoned  my  waiter.  On  his  way  to  me  he 
stooped  down  and  picked  up  something  which, 
with  a  smile  and  a  shrug,  he  laid  on  my  table: 
*I1  semble  que  Mademoiselle  ne  s'en  servira  plus.' 
This  is  the  thing  I  now  write  of,  and  at  sight  of 
it  I  understood  why  there  had  been  that  snapping 


6  AND  EVEN  NOW 

and  crackling,  and  what  the  white  fragments  on 
the  ground  were. 

I  hurried  through  the  rooms,  hoping  to  see  a 
continuation  of  that  drama — a  scene  of  appease- 
ment, perhaps,  or  of  fury  still  implacable.  But  the 
two  oddly-assorted  players  were  not  performing 
there.  My  waiter  had  told  me  he  had  not  seen 
either  of  them  before.  I  suppose  they  had  arrived 
that  day.  But  I  was  not  destined  to  see  either  of 
them  again.  They  went  away,  I  suppose,  next 
morning;   jointly  or  singly;   singly,  I  imagine. 

They  made,  however,  a  prolonged  stay  in  my 
young  memory,  and  would  have  done  so  even  had 
I  not  had  that  tangible  memento  of  them.  Who 
were  they,  those  two  of  whom  that  one  strange 
glimpse  had  befallen  me?  What,  I  wondered,  was 
the  previous  history  of  each.^^  What,  in  particular, 
had  all  that  tragic  pother  been  about?  Mile. 
Angelique  I  guessed  to  be  thirty  years  old,  her 
friend  perhaps  fifty-five.  Each  of  their  faces  was 
as  clear  to  me  as  in  the  moment  of  actual  vision — 
the  man's  fat  shiny  bewildered  face;  the  taut 
white  face  of  the  woman,  the  hard  red  line  of  her 
mouth,  the  eyes  that  were  not  flashing,  but  posi- 
tively dull,  with  rage.  I  presumed  that  the  fan 
had  been  a  present  from  him,  and  a  recent  present 
— bought  perhaps  that  very  day,  after  their  arrival 
in  the  town.  But  what,  what  had  he  done  that 
she  should  break  it  between  her  hands,  scattering 


A  RELIC  7 

the  splinters  as  who  should  sow  dragon's  teeth? 
I  could  not  believe  he  had  done  anything  much 
amiss.  I  imagined  her  grievance  a  trivial  one. 
But  this  did  not  make  the  case  less  engrossing. 
Again  and  again  I  would  take  the  fan-stump  from 
my  pocket,  examining  it  on  the  palm  of  my  hand, 
or  between  finger  and  thumb,  hoping  to  read  the 
mystery  it  had  been  mixed  up  in,  so  that  I  might 
reveal  that  mystery  to  the  world.  To  the  world, 
yes;  nothing  less  than  that.  I  was  determined  to 
make  a  story  of  what  I  had  seen — a  C07ite  in  the 
manner  of  great  Guy  de  Maupassant.  Now  and 
again,  in  the  course  of  the  past  year  or  so,  it  had 
occurred  to  me  that  I  might  be  a  writer.  But  I 
had  not  felt  the  impulse  to  sit  down  and  write 
something.  I  did  feel  that  impulse  now.  It  would 
indeed  have  been  an  irresistible  impulse  if  I  had 
known  just  what  to  write. 

I  felt  I  might  know  at  any  moment,  and  had  but 
to  give  my  mind  to  it.  Maupassant  wfs  an  im- 
peccable artist,  but  I  think  the  secret  of  the  hold 
he  had  on  the  young  men  of  my  day  was  not  so 
much  that  we  discerned  his  cunning  as  that  we 
delighted  in  the  simplicity  which  his  cunning 
achieved.  I  had  read  a  great  number  of  his  short 
stories,  but  none  that  had  made  me  feel  as  though 
I,  if  I  were  a  writer,  mightn't  have  written  it  myself. 
Maupassant  had  an  European  reputation.  It  was 
pleasing,  it  was  soothing  and  gratifying,  to  feel  that 


8  AND  EVEN  NOW 

one  could  at  any  time  win  an  equal  fame  if  one 
chose  to  set  pen  to  paper.  And  now,  suddenly, 
the  spring  had  been  touched  in  me,  the  time  was 
come.  I  was  grateful  for  the  fluke  by  which  I  had 
witnessed  on  the  terrace  that  evocative  scene.  I 
looked  forward  to  reading  the  MS.  of  'The  Fan' — 
to-morrow,  at  latest.  I  was  not  wildly  ambitious. 
I  was  not  inordinately  vain.  I  knew  I  couldn't 
ever,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  write  like  Mr. 
George  Meredith.  Those  wondrous  works  of  his, 
seething  with  wit,  with  poetry  and  philosophy  and 
what  not,  never  had  beguiled  me  with  the  sense 
that  I  might  do  something  similar.  I  had  full  con- 
sciousness of  not  being  a  philosopher,  of  not  being 
a  poet,  and  of  not  being  a  wit.  Well,  Maupassant 
was  none  of  these  things.  He  was  just  an  observer 
like  me.  Of  course  he  was  a  good  deal  older  than  I, 
and  had  observed  a  good  deal  more.  But  it  seemed 
to  me  that  he  was  not  my  superior  in  knowledge  of 
life.     I  knew  all  about  life  through  Jiim. 

Dimly,  the  initial  paragraph  of  my  tale  floated  in 
my  mind.  I — not  exactly  I  myself,  but  rather  that 
impersonal  je  familiar  to  me  through  Maupassant 
— was  to  be  sitting  at  that  table,  with  a  bock  before 
me,  just  as  I  had  sat.  Four  or  five  short  sentences 
would  give  the  whole  scene.  One  of  these  I  had 
quite  definitely  composed.  You  have  already  heard 
it.  'Down  below,  the  sea  rustled  to  and  fro  over 
the  shingle.' 


A  RELIC  9 

These  words,  which  pleased  me  much,  were  to  do 
double  duty.  They  were  to  recur.  They  were  to 
be,  by  a  fine  stroke,  the  very  last  words  of  my  tale, 
their  tranquillity  striking  a  sharp  ironic  contrast 
with  the  stress  of  what  had  just  been  narrated.  I 
had,  you  see,  advanced  further  in  the  form  of  my 
tale  than  in  the  substance.  But  even  the  form  was 
as  yet  vague.  What,  exactly,  was  to  happen  after 
Mile.  Angelique  and  M.  Joumand  (as  I  provision- 
ally called  him)  had  rushed  back  past  me  into  the 
casino  .f*  It  was  clear  that  I  must  hear  the  whole 
inner  history  from  the  lips  of  one  or  the  other  of 
them.  Which.''  Should  M.  Joumand  stagger  out 
on  to  the  terrace,  sit  down  heavily  at  the  table 
next  to  mine,  bury  his  head  in  his  hands,  and 
presently,  in  broken  words,  blurt  out  to  me  all 
that  might  be  of  interest.'*  .  .  . 

And  I  tell  you  I  gave  up  everything  for  her — 
everything."  He  stared  at  me  with  his  old  hope- 
less eyes.  "She  is  more  than  the  fiend  I  have 
described  to  you.  Yet  I  swear  to  you,  monsieur, 
that  if  I  had  anything  left  to  give,  it  should  be 
hers." 

'Down  below,  the  sea  rustled  to  and  fro  over 
the  shingle.' 

Or  should  the  lady  herself  be  my  informant  .^^ 
For  a  while,  I  rather  leaned  to  this  alternative.  It 
was  more  exciting,  it  seemed  to  make  the  writer 
more  signally  a  man  of  the  world.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  was  less  simple  to  manage.       Wronged 


10  AND  EVEN  NOW 

persons  might  be  ever  so  communicative,  but  I 
surmised  that  persons  in  the  wrong  were  reticent. 
Mile.  Angelique,  therefore,  would  have  to  be 
modified  by  me  in  appearance  and  behaviour,  toned 
down,  touched  up;  and  poor  M.  Joumand  must 
look  like  a  man  of  whom  one  could  believe  any- 
thing. .  .  . 

'She  ceased  speaking.  She  gazed  down  at 
the  fragments  of  her  fan,  and  then,  as  though 
finding  in  them  an  image  of  her  own  life,  whispered, 
"To  think  vv^hat  I  once  was,  monsieur!- — what,  but 
for  him,  I  might  be,  even  now!"  She  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  then  stared  out  into  the  night. 
Suddenly  she  uttered  a  short,  harsh  laugh. 

'Down  below,  the  sea  rustled  to  and  fro  over 
the  shingle.' 

I  decided  that  I  must  choose  the  first  of  these 
two  ways.  It  was  the  less  chivalrous  as  well  as 
the  less  lurid  way,  but  clearly  it  was  the  more 
artistic  as  well  as  the  easier.  The  'chose  vue,'  the 
'tranche  de  la  vie' — this  was  the  thing  to  aim  at. 
Honesty  was  the  best  policy.  I  must  be  nothing 
if  not  merciless.  Maupassant  was  nothing  if  not 
merciless.  He  would  not  have  spared  Mile.  An- 
gelique. Besides,  why  should  I  libel  M.  Joumand? 
Poor — no,  not  poor  M.  Joumand !  I  warned  myself 
against  pitying  him.  One  touch  of '  sentimentality,' 
and  I  should  be  lost.  M.  Joumand  was  ridiculous. 
I  must  keep  him  so.  But — what  was  his  position 
in  \iie?     Was  he  a  lawyer  perhaps!^ — or  the  pro- 


A  RELIC  11 

prietor  of  a  shop  in  the  Rue  de  RivoH?  I  toyed 
with  the  possibihty  that  he  kept  a  fan  shop — that 
the  business  had  once  been  a  prosperous  one, 
but  had  gone  down,  down,  because  of  his  in- 
fatuation for  this  woman  to  whom  he  was  always 
giving  fans — which  she  always  smashed.  .  .  .  * '  'Ah 
monsieur,  cruel  and  ungrateful  to  me  though  she 
is,  I  swear  to  you  that  if  I  had  anything  left  to 
give,  it  should  be  hers;  but,"  he  stared  at  me  with 
his  old  hopeless  eyes,  "the  fan  she  broke  to- 
night was  the  last — the  last,  monsieur — of  my 
stock."  Down  below,' — but  I  pulled  myself  to- 
gether, and  asked  pardon  of  my  Muse. 

It  may  be  that  I  had  offended  her  by  my  fooling. 
Or  it  may  be  that  she  had  a  sisterly  desire  to  shield 
Mile.  Angelique  from  my  mordant  art.  Or  it  may 
be  that  she  was  bent  on  saving  M.  de  Maupassant 
from  a  dangerous  rivalry.  Anyway,  she  withheld 
from  me  the  inspiration  I  had  so  confidently  solic- 
ited. I  could  not  think  what  had  led  up  to  that 
scene  on  the  terrace.  I  tried  hard  and  soberly. 
I  turned  the  'chose  vue'  over  and  over  in  my  mind, 
day  by  day,  and  the  fan-stump  over  and  over  in 
my  hand.  But  the  'chose  a  figurer'-^what,  oh 
what,  was  that.?  Nightly  I  revisited  the  cafe,  and 
sat  there  with  an  open  mind — a  mind  wide-open  to 
catch  the  idea  that  should  drop  into  it  like  a  ripe 
golden  plum.  The  plum  did  not  ripen.  The  mind 
remained  wide-open  for  a  week  or  more,  but  nothing 


12  AND  EVEN  NOW 

except  that  phrase  about  the  sea  rustled  to  and 
fro  in  it. 

A  full  quarter  of  a  century  has  gone  by.  M. 
Joumand's  death,  so  far  too  fat  was  he  all  those 
years  ago,  may  be  presumed.  A  temper  so  violent 
as  Mile.  Angelique's  must  surely  have  brought  its 
owner  to  the  grave,  long  since.  But  here,  all  un- 
changed, the  stump  of  her  fan  is;  and  once  more 
I  turn  it  over  and  over  in  my  hand,  not  learning  its 
secret — no,  nor  even  trying  to,  now.  The  chord 
this  relic  strikes  in  me  is  not  one  of  curiosity  as  to 
that  old  quarrel,  but  (if  you  will  forgive  me)  one 
of  tenderness  for  my  first  effort  to  write,  and  for 
my  first  hopes  of  excellence. 


*HOW    SHALL    I    WORD    IT?' 


*HOW    SHALL    I    WORD    IT?' 

igio. 

IT  would  seem  that  I  am  one  of  those  travellers 
for  whom  the  railway  bookstall  does  not 
cater.  Whenever  I  start  on  a  journey,  I 
find  that  my  choice  lies  between  well-printed  books 
which  I  have  no  wish  to  read,  and  well-written 
books  which  I  could  not  read  without  permanent 
injury  to  my  eyesight.  The  keeper  of  the  book- 
stall, seeing  me  gaze  vaguely  along  his  shelves,  sug- 
gests that  I  should  take  *Fen  Country  Fanny'  or 
else  *The  Track  of  Blood'  and  have  done  with  it. 
Not  wishing  to  hurt  his  feelings,  I  refuse  these 
works  on  the  plea  that  I  have  read  them.  Whereon 
•he,  divining  despite  me  that  I  am  a  superior  person, 
says  *Here  is  a  nice  little  handy  edition  of  More's 
"Utopia"'  or  *Carlyle's  "French  Revolution"  ' 
and  again  I  make  some  excuse.  What  pleasure 
could  I  get  from  trying  to  cope  with  a  masterpiece 
printed  in  diminutive  grey-ish  type  on  a  semi- 
transparent  little  grey-ish  page?  I  relieve  the 
bookstall  of  nothing  but  a  newspaper  or  two. 

The  other  day,  however,  my  eye  and  fancy  were 
caught  by  a  book  entitled  *How  Shall  I  Word  It?' 

15 


16  AND  EVEN  NOW 

and  sub-entitled  *A  Complete  Letter  Writer  for 
Men  and  Women.'  I  had  never  read  one  of  these 
manuals,  but  had  often  heard  that  there  was  a 
great  and  constant  'demand'  for  them.  So  I 
demanded  this  one.  It  is  no  great  fun  in  itself. 
The  writer  is  no  fool.  He  has  evidently  a  natural 
talent  for  writing  letters.  His  style  is,  for  the 
most  part,  discreet  and  easy.  If  you  were  a  young 
man  writing  '  to  Father  of  Girl  he  wishes  to  Marry ' 
or  'thanking  Fiancee  for  Present'  or  'reproaching 
Fiancee  for  being  a  Flirt,'  or  if  you  were  a  mother 
'asking  Governess  her  Qualifications'  or  'replying 
to  Undesirable  Invitation  for  her  Child,'  or  indeed 
if  you  were  in  any  other  one  of  the  crises  which 
this  book  is  designed  to  alleviate,  you  might 
copy  out  and  post  the  specially-provided  letter 
without  making  yourself  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of 
its  receiver — unless,  of  course,  he  or  she  also 
possessed  a  copy  of  the  book.  But — well,  can  you 
conceive  any  one  copying  out  and  posting  one  of 
these  letters,  or  even  taking  it  as  the  basis  for 
composition?  You  cannot.  That  shows  how  little 
you  know  of  your  fellow-creatures.  Not  you  nor 
I  can  plumb  the  abyss  at  the  bottom  of  which  such 
humility  is  possible.  Nevertheless,  as  we  know  by 
that  great  and  constant  'demand,'  there  the  abyss 
is,  and  there  multitudes  are  at  the  bottom  of 
it.  Let's  peer  down.  .  .  No,  all  is  darkness.  But 
faintly,  if  we  listen  hard,  is  borne  up  to  us  a  sound 


*HOW  SHALL  I  WORD  IT?'  17 

of  the  scratching  of  innumerable  pens — pens  whose 
wielders  are  all  trying,  as  the  author  of  this  hand- 
book urges  them,  to  'be  original,  fresh,  and  in- 
teresting' by  dint  of  more  or  less  strict  adherence 
to  sample. 

Giddily  you  draw  back  from  the  edge  of  the 
abyss.  Come! — here  is  a  thought  to  steady  you. 
The  mysterious  great  masses  of  helpless  folk  for 
whom  'How  Shall  I  Word  It'  is  written  are  sound 
at  heart,  delicate  in  feeling,  anxious  to  please,  most 
loth  to  wound.  For  it  must  be  presumed  that  the 
author's  style  of  letter- writing  is  informed  as  much 
by  a  desire  to  give  his  public  what  it  needs,  and 
will  pay  for,  as  by  his  own  beautiful  nature;  and 
in  the  course  of  all  the  letters  that  he  dictates  you 
will  find  not  one  harsh  word,  not  one  ignoble 
thought  or  unkind  insinuation.  In  all  of  them, 
though  so  many  are  for  the  use  of  persons  placed 
in  the  most  trying  circumstances,  and  some  of  them 
are  for  persons  writhing  under  a  sense  of  intolerable 
injury,  sweetness  and  light  do  ever  reign.  Even 
'yours  truly,  Jacob  Langton,'  in  his  'letter  to  his 
Daughter's  Mercenary  Fiance,'  mitigates  the  stern- 
ness of  his  tone  by  the  remark  that  his  'task  is 
inexpressibly  painful.'  And  he,  Mr.  Langton,  is 
the  one  writer  who  lets  the  post  go  out  on  his  wrath. 
When  Horace  Masterton,  of  Thorpe  Road,  Putney, 
receives  from  Miss  Jessica  Weir,  of  Fir  Villa, 
Blackheath,    a   letter   'declaring   her   Change   of 


18  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Feelings,'  does  he  upbraid  her?  No;  *It  was 
honest  and  brave  of  you  to  write  to  me  so  straight- 
forwardly and  at  the  back  of  my  mind  I  know  you 
have  done  what  is  best.  ...  I  give  you  back  your 
freedom  only  at  your  desire.  God  bless  you,  dear.* 
Not  less  admirable  is  the  behaviour,  in  similar  case, 
of  Cecil  Grant  (14,  Glover  Street,  Streatham). 
Suddenly,  as  a  bolt  from  the  blue,  comes  a  letter 
from  Miss  Louie  Hawke  (Elm  View,  Deerhurst), 
breaking  off  her  betrothal  to  him.  Haggard,  he 
sits  down  to  his  desk;  his  pen  traverses  the  note- 
paper — calling  down  curses  on  Louie  and  on  all  her 
sex?  No;  'one  cannot  say  good-bye  for  ever 
without  deep  regret  to  days  that  have  been  so  full 
of  happiness.  I  must  thank  you  sincerely  for  all 
your  great  kindness  to  me.  .  .  .  With  every  sin- 
cere wish  for  your  future  happiness,'  he  bestows 
complete  freedom  on  Miss  Hawke.  And  do  not 
imagine  that  in  the  matter  of  self-control  and 
sympathy,  of  power  to  understand  all  and  pardon 
all,  the  men  are  lagged  behind  by  the  women. 
Miss  Leila  Johnson  (The  Manse,  Carlyle)  has  ob- 
served in  Leonard  Wace  (Dover  Street,  Saltburn) 
a  certain  coldness  of  demeanour;  yet  'I  do  not 
blame  you;  it  is  probably  your  nature';  and 
Leila  in  her  sweet  forbearance  is  typical  of  all  the 
other  pained  women  in  these  pages :  she  is  but  one 
of  a  crowd  of  heroines. 

Face  to  face  with  all  this  perfection,  the  not 


*HOW  SHALL  I  WORD  IT?'  19 

perfect  reader  begins  to  crave  some  little  outburst 
of  wrath,  of  hatred  or  malice,  from  one  of  these 
imaginary  ladies  and  gentlemen.  He  longs  for — 
how  shall  he  word  it? — a  glimpse  of  some  bad 
motive,  of  some  little  lapse  from  dignity.  Often, 
passing  by  a  pillar-box,  I  have  wished  I  could  un- 
lock it  and  carry  away  its  contents,  to  be  studied 
at  my  leisure.  I  have  always  thought  such  a  haul 
would  abound  in  things  fascinating  to  a  student 
of  human  nature.  One  night,  not  long  ago,  I 
took  a  waxen  impression  of  the  lock  of  the  pillar- 
box  nearest  to  my  house,  and  had  a  key  made. 
This  implement  I  have  as  yet  lacked  either  the 
courage  or  the  opportunity  to  use.  And  now  I 
think  I  shall  throw  it  away.  .  .  .  No,  I  shan't. 
I  refuse,  after  all,  to  draw  my  inference  that  the 
bulk  of  the  British  public  writes  always  in  the 
manner  of  this  handbook.  Even  if  they  all  have 
beautiful  natures  they  must  sometimes  be  sent 
slightly  astray  by  inferior  impulses,  just  as  are  you 
and  I. 

And,  if  err  they  must,  surely  it  were  well  they 
should  know  how  to  do  it  correctly  and  forcibly. 
I  suggest  to  our  author  that  he  should  sprinkle  his 
next  edition  with  a  few  less  righteous  examples, 
thereby  both  purging  his  book  of  its  monotony  and 
somewhat  justifying  its  sub-title.  Like  most  people 
who  are  in  the  habit  of  writing  things  to  be  printed, 
I  have  not  the  knack  of  writing  really  good  letters. 


20  AND  EVEN  NOW 

But  let  me  crudely  indicate  the  sort  of  thing  that 
our  manual  needs.  .  .  . 


Letter  from  Poor  Man  to  obtain  Money  from 
Rich  One. 

[The  English  law  is  particularly  hard  on  what  is  called  blackmail. 
It  is  therefore  essential  that  the  applicant  should  write  nothing  that 
might  afterwards  be  twisted  to  incriminate  him. — Ed.] 

Dear  Sir, 

To-day,  as  I  was  turning  out  a  drawer  in  my 
attic,  I  came  across  a  letter  which  by  a  curious 
chance  fell  into  my  hands  some  years  ago,  and 
which,  in  the  stress  of  grave  pecuniary  embarrass- 
ment, had  escaped  my  memory.  It  is  a  letter 
written  by  yourself  to  a  lady,  and  the  date  shows  it 
to  have  been  written  shortly  after  your  marriage. 
It  is  of  a  confidential  nature,  and  might,  I  fear,  if  it 
fell  into  the  wrong  hands,  be  cruelly  misconstrued. 
I  would  wish  you  to  have  the  satisfaction  of  de- 
stroying it  in  person.  At  first  I  thought  of  sending 
it  on  to  you  by  post.  But  I  know  how  happy  you 
are  in  your  domestic  life;  and  probably  your  wife 
and  you,  in  your  perfect  mutual  trust,  are  in  the 
habit  of  opening  each  other's  letters.  Therefore,  to 
avoid  risk,  I  would  prefer  to  hand  the  document  to 
you  personally.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  come  to  my 
attic,  where  I  could  not  offer  you  such  hospitality 
as  is  due  to  a  man  of  your  wealth  and  position.  You 


*HOW  SHALL  I  WORD  IT?'  21 

will  be  so  good  as  to  meet  me  at  3.0  a.m.  (sharp) 
to-morrow  (Thursday)  beside  the  tenth  lamp-post 
to  the  left  on  the  Surrey  side  of  Waterloo  Bridge; 
at  which  hour  and  place  we  shall  not  be  disturbed. 
I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Yours  respectfully, 
James  Gridge. 

Letter  from  Young  Man  refusing  to  pay  his 
Tailor's  Bill. 

Mr.  Eustace  Davenant  has  received  the  half- 
servile,  half-insolent  screed  which  Mr.  Yardley  has 
addressed  to  him.  Let  Mr.  Yardley  cease  from 
crawling  on  his  knees  and  shaking  his  fist.  Neither 
this  posture  nor  this  gesture  can  wring  one  bent 
farthing  from  the  pockets  of  Mr.  Davenant,  who 
was  a  minor  at  the  time  when  that  series  of  ill- 
made  suits  was  supplied  to  him  and  will  hereafter, 
as  in  the  past,  shout  (without  prejudice)  from  the 
house-tops  that  of  all  the  tailors  in  London  Mr. 
Yardley  is  at  once  the  most  grasping  and  the  least 
competent. 

Letter  to  thank  Author  for  Inscribed  Copy 
OF  Book 

Dear  Mr.  Emanuel  Flower, 

It  was  kind  of  you  to  think  of  sending  me  a  copy 
of  your  new  book.     It  would  have  been  kinder  still 


22  AND  EVEN  NOW 

to  think  again  and  abandon  that  project.  I  am  a 
man  of  gentle  instincts,  and  do  not  Hke  to  tell  you 
that  'A  Flight  into  Arcady'  (of  which  I  have 
skimmed  a  few  pages,  thus  wasting  two  or  three 
minutes  of  my  not  altogether  worthless  time) 
is  trash.  On  the  other  hand,  I  am  determined 
that  you  shall  not  be  able  to  go  around  boasting 
to  your  friends,  if  you  have  any,  that  this  work  was 
not  condemned,  derided,  and  dismissed  by  your 
sincere  well-wisher,  Wrexford  Cripps. 

Letter  to  Member  of  Parliament  Unseated 
AT  General  Election 

Dear  Mr.  Pobsby-Burford, 

Though  I  am  myself  an  ardent  Tory,  I  cannot  but 
rejoice  in  the  crushing  defeat  you  have  just  suffered 
in  West  Odgetown.  There  are  moments  when 
political  conviction  is  overborne  by  personal 
sentiment;  and  this  is  one  of  them.  Your  loss  of 
the  seat  that  you  held  is  the  more  striking  by  reason 
of  the  splendid  manner  in  which  the  northern  and 
eastern  divisions  of  Odgetown  have  been  wrested 
from  the  Liberal  Party.  The  great  bulk  of  the 
newspaper-reading  public  will  be  puzzled  by  your 
extinction  in  the  midst  of  our  party's  triumph. 
But  then,  the  great  mass  of  the  newspaper-reading 
public  has  not  met  you.  I  have.  You  will 
probably  not  remember  me.     You  are  the  sort  of 


'HOW  SHALL  I  WORD  IT?'  23 

man  who  would  not  remember  anybody  who  might 
not  be  of  some  definite  use  to  him.  Such,  at  least, 
was  one  of  the  impressions  you  made  on  me  when 
I  met  you  last  summer  at  a  dinner  given  by  our 
friends  the  Pelhams.  Among  the  other  things  in 
you  that  struck  me  were  the  blatant  pomposity  of 
your  manner,  your  appalling  flow  of  cheap  plati- 
tudes, and  your  hoggish  lack  of  ideas.  It  is  such 
men  as  you  that  lower  the  tone  of  public  life.  And  I 
am  sure  that  in  writing  to  you  thus  I  am  but  ex- 
pressing what  is  felt,  without  distinction  of  party, 
by  all  who  sat  with  you  in  the  late  Parliament. 

The  one  person  in  whose  behalf  I  regret  your 
withdrawal  into  private  life  is  your  wife,  whom  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  taking  in  to  the  aforesaid 
dinner.  It  was  evident  to  me  that  she  was  a 
woman  whose  spirit  was  well-nigh  broken  by  her 
conjunction  with  you.  Such  remnants  of  cheer- 
fulness as  were  in  her  I  attributed  to  the  Parlia- 
mentary duties  which  kept  you  out  of  her  sight  for 
so  very  many  hours  daily.  I  do  not  like  to  think 
of  the  fate  to  which  the  free  and  independent 
electors  of  West  Odgetown  have  just  condemned 
her.  Only,  remember  this :  chattel  of  yours  though 
she  is,  and  timid  and  humble,  she  despises  you  in 
her  heart. 

I  am,  dear  Mr.  Pobsby-Burford, 
Yours  very  truly, 

Harold  Thistlake. 


24  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Letter  from  Young  Lady  in  Answer  to  Invi- 
tation FROM  Old  Schoolmistress. 

My  dear  Miss  Price, 

How  awfully  sweet  of  you  to  ask  me  to  stay 
with  you  for  a  few  days  but  how  can  you  think 
I  may  have  forgotten  you  for  of  course  I  think  of 
you  so  very  often  and  of  the  three  ears  I  spent 
at  your  school  because  it  is  such  a  joy  not  to  be 
there  any  longer  and  if  one  is  at  all  down  it  bucks 
one  up  derectly  to  remember  that  thats  all  over 
atanyrate  and  that  one  has  enough  food  to  nurrish 
one  and  not  that  awful  monottany  of  life  and  not 
the  petty  fogging  daily  tirrany  you  went  in  for 
and  I  can  imagin  no  greater  thrill  and  luxury  in  a 
way  than  to  come  and  see  the  whole  dismal  grind 
still  going  on  but  without  me  being  in  it  but  this 
would  be  rather  beastly  of  me  wouldnt  it  so  please 
dear  Miss  Price  dont  expect  me  and  do  excuse 
mistakes  of  English  Composition  and  Spelling  and 
etcetra  in  your  affectionate  old  pupil, 

Emily  Therese  Lynn-Royston. 

ps,  I  often  rite  to  people  telling  them  where  I 
was  edducated  and  highly  reckomending  you. 


'HOW  SHALL  I  WORD  IT?  25 

Letter  in  Acknowledgement  of  Wedding 
Present. 

Dear  Lady  Amblesham, 

Who  gives  quickly,  says  the  old  proverb,  gives 
twice.  For  this  reason  I  have  purposely  delayed 
writing  to  you,  lest  I  should  appear  to  thank  you 
more  than  once  for  the  small,  cheap,  hideous 
present  you  sent  me  on  the  occasion  of  my  recent 
wedding.  Were  you  a  poor  woman,  that  little  bowl 
of  ill-imitated  Dresden  china  would  convict  you  of 
tastelessness  merely;  were  you  a  blind  woman, 
of  nothing  but  an  odious  parsimony.  As  you  have 
normal  eyesight  and  more  than  normal  wealth, 
your  gift  to  me  proclaims  you  at  once  a  Philistine 
and  a  miser  (or  rather  did  so  proclaim  you  until, 
less  than  ten  seconds  after  I  had  unpacked  it  from 
its  wrappings  of  tissue  paper,  I  took  it  to  the  open 
window  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  it 
shattered  to  atoms  on  the  pavement).  But  stay! 
I  perceive  a  possible  flaw  in  my  argument.  Perhaps 
you  were  guided  in  your  choice  by  a  definite  wish 
to  insult  me.  I  am  sure,  on  reflection,  that  this 
was  so.     I  shall  not  forget. 

Yours,  etc., 
Cynthia  Beaumarsh. 

PS.  My  husband  asked  me  to  tell  you  to  warn  Lord 
Amblesham  to  keep  out  of  his  way  or  to  assume 


26  AND  EVEN  NOW 

some  disguise  so  complete  that  lie  will  not  be 
recognised  by  him  and  horsewhipped. 

PPS.     I  am  sending  copies  of  this  letter  to  the 
principal  London  and  provincial  newspapers. 

Letter  from  .  .  . 

But  enough!  I  never  thought  I  should  be  so 
strong  in  this  line.  I  had  not  foreseen  such  copi- 
ousness and  fatal  fluency.  Never  again  v/ill  I  tap 
these  deep  dark  reservoirs  in  a  character  that  had 
always  seemed  to  me,  on  the  whole,  so  amiable. 


MOBLED     KING 


MOBLED    KING 

igii. 

JUST  as  a  memorial,  just  to  perpetuate  in 
one's  mind  the  dead  man  in  whose  image 
and  honour  it  has  been  erected,  this  statue 
is  better  than  any  that  I  have  seen.  .  .  No,  pedan- 
tic reader :  I  ought  7iot  to  have  said  '  than  any  other 
that  I  have  seen.'  Except  in  shrouded  and  dis- 
torted outHne,  I  have  not  seen  this  statue. 

Not  as  an  image,  then,  can  it  be  extolled  by 
me.  And  I  am  bound  to  say  that  even  as  an 
honour  it  seems  to  me  more  than  dubious.  Com- 
missioned and  designed  and  chiselled  and  set  up 
in  all  reverence,  it  yet  serves  very  well  the  pur- 
pose of  a  guy.  This  does  not  surprise  you.  You 
are  familiar  with  a  host  of  statues  that  are  open 
to  precisely  that  objection.  Westminster  Abbey 
abounds  in  them.  They  confront  you  through- 
out London  and  the  provinces.  They  stud  the 
Continent.  Rare  indeed  is  the  statue  that  can 
please  the  well-wishers  of  the  person  portrayed. 
Nor  in  every  case  is  the  sculptor  to  blame.  There 
is  in  the  art  of  sculpture  itself  a  quality  intractable 
to  the  aims  of  personal  portraiture.    Sculpture,  just 

29 


30  AND  EVEN  NOW 

as  it  cannot  fitly  record  the  gesture  of  a  moment,  is 
discommoded  by  personal  idiosyncrasies.  The  de- 
tails that  go  to  compose  this  or  that  gentleman's  ap- 
pearance— such  as  the  little  wrinkles  around  his 
eyes,  and  the  way  his  hair  grows,  and  the  special 
convolutions  of  his  ears — all  these,  presentable  on 
canvas,  or  evocable  by  words,  are  not  right  matter 
for  the  chisel  or  for  the  mould  and  furnace.  Trans- 
lated into  terms  of  bronze  or  marble,  howsoever 
cunningly,  these  slight  and  trivial  things  cease  to  be 
trivial  and  slight.  They  assume  a  ludicrous  im- 
portance. No  man  is  worthy  to  be  reproduced 
as  bust  or  statue.  And  if  sculpture  is  too  august 
to  deal  with  what  a  man  has  received  from  his 
Maker,  how  much  less  ought  it  to  be  bothered 
about  what  he  has  received  from  his  hosier  and 
tailor!  Sculpture's  province  is  the  soul.  The 
most  concrete,  it  is  also  the  most  spiritual  of  the 
arts.  The  very  heaviness  and  stubbornness  of  its 
material,  precluding  it  from  happy  dalliance  with 
us  fleeting  individual  creatures,  fit  it  to  cope  with 
that  which  in  mankind  is  permanent  and  universal. 
It  can  through  the  symbol  give  us  incomparably 
the  type.  Wise  is  that  sculptor  who,  when  portray 
an  individual  he  must,  treats  arbitrarily  the  mere 
actual  husk,  and  strives  but  to  show  the  soul. 
Of  course,  he  must  first  catch  that  soul.  What 
M.  Rodin  knew  about  the  character  and  career  of 
Mr.  George  Wyndham,  or  about  the  character  and 


MOBLED  KING  31 

career  of  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw,  was  not,  I  hazard, 
worth  knowing;  and  Mr.  Shaw  is  handed  down  by 
him  to  posterity  as  a  sort  of  bearded  lady,  and 
Mr.  Wyndham  as  a  sort  of  beardless  one.  But 
about  Honore  de  Balzac  he  laiew  much.  Balzac 
he  understood.  Balzac's  work,  Balzac's  soul,  in 
that  great  rugged  figure  aspiring  and  indeflexible, 
he  gave  us  with  a  finality  that  could  have  been 
achieved  through  no  other  art  than  sculpture. 

There  is  a  close  kinship  between  that  statue 
of  Balzac  and  this  statue  of  which  I  am  to  tell  you. 
Both  induce,  above  all,  a  profound  sense  of  unrest, 
of  heroic  will  to  overcome  all  obstacles.  The  will 
to  compass  self-expression,  the  will  to  emerge  from 
darkness  to  light,  from  formlessness  to  form,  from 
nothing  to  everything — this  it  is  that  I  find  in 
either  statue;  and  this  it  is  in  virtue  of  which 
the  Balzac  has  unbeknown  a  brother  on  the  Italian 
seaboard. 

Here  stands — or  rather  struggles — on  his  ped- 
estal this  younger  brother,  in  strange  contrast  with 
the  scenery  about  him.  Mildly,  behind  his  back, 
the  sea  laps  the  shingle.  Mildly,  in  front  of  him, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  rise  some  of  those 
mountains  whereby  the  Earth,  before  she  settled 
down  to  cool,  compassed — she,  too — some  sort  of 
self-expression.  Mildly  around  his  pedestal,  among 
rusty  anchors  strewn  there  on  the  grass  between 
road  and  beach,  sit  the  fishermen,  mending  their 


32  AND  EVEN  NOW 

nets  or  their  sails,  or  whittling  bits  of  wood.     What 

will  you  say  of  these  fishermen  when but  I 

outstrip  my  narrative. 

I  had  no  inkling  of  tragedy  when  first  I  came  to 
the  statue.  I  did  not  even  know^  it  was  a  statue. 
I  had  made  by  night  the  short  journey  from  Genoa 
to  this  place  beside  the  sea;  and,  driving  along  the 
coast-road  to  the  hotel  that  had  been  recommended, 
I  passed  what  in  the  starlight  looked  like  nothing 
but  an  elderly  woman  mounted  on  a  square  pedestal 
and  gazing  out  seaward — a  stout,  elderly,  lonely 
woman  in  a  poke  bonnet,  indescribable  except  by 
that  old  Victorian  term  'a  party,'  and  as  unlike 
Balzac's  younger  brother  as  only  Sarah  Gamp's 
elder  sister  could  be.  How,  I  wondered  in  my  hotel, 
came  the  elder  sister  of  Sarah  Gamp  to  be  here  in 
Liguria  and  in  the  twentieth  century?  How 
clomb  she,  puffing  and  panting,  on  to  that  pedestal? 
For  what  argosy  of  gin  was  she  straining  her  old 
eyes  seaward?  I  knew  there  would  be  no  sleep 
for  me  until  I  had  solved  these  problems;  and  I 
went  forth  afoot  along  the  way  I  had  come.  The 
moon  had  risen;  and  presently  I  saw  in  the  star- 
light the  'party'  who  so  intrigued  me.  Eminent, 
amorphous,  mysterious,  there  she  stood,  immobile, 
voluminous,  ghastly  beneath  the  moon.  By  a  slight 
shoreward  lift  of  crinoline,  as  against  the  seaward 
protrusion  of  poke  bonnet,  a  grotesque  balance  was 
given  to  the  unshapely  shape  of  her.    For  all  her 


MOBLED  KING  33 

uncanniness,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  any  one, 
male  or  female,  old  or  young,  look  so  hopelessly 
common.  I  felt  that  by  daylight  a  noble  vulgarity 
might  be  hers.  In  the  watches  of  the  night  she  was 
hopelessly,  she  was  transcendently  common. 

Little  by  little,  as  I  came  nearer,  she  ceased  to 
illude  me,  and  I  began  to  think  of  her  as  'it.' 
What  'it'  was,  however,  I  knew  not  until  I  was  at 
quite  close  quarters  to  the  pedestal  it  rose  from. 
There,  on  the  polished  granite,  was  carved  this 
legend : 

A 
UMBERTO  1  ° 

And  instinctively,  as  my  eye  travelled  up,  my 
hand  leapt  to  the  salute;  for  I  stood  before  the 
veiled  image  of  a  dead  king,  and  had  been  guilty 
of  a  misconception  that  dishonoured  him. 

Standing  respectfully  at  one  angle  and  another, 
I  was  able  to  form,  by  the  outlines  of  the  grey 
sheeting  that  enveloped  him,  some  rough  notion  of 
his  posture  and  his  costume.  Round  what  was 
evidently  his  neck  the  sheeting  was  constricted 
by  ropes;  and  the  height  and  girth  of  the  bundle 
above — to  half-closed  eyes,  even  now,  an  averted 
poke-bonnet — gave  token  of  a  tall  helmet  with  a 
luxuriant  shock  of  plumes  waving  out  behind. 
Immediately  beneath  the  ropes,  the  breadth  and 
sharpness    of    the    bundle    hinted    at    epaulettes. 


34  AND  EVEN  NOW 

And  the  protrusion  that  had  seemed  to  be  that 
of  a  wind-blown  crinoline  was  caused,  I  thought, 
by  the  king  having  his  left  hand  thrust  well  out 
to  grasp  the  hilt  of  his  inclined  sword.  Altogether, 
I  had  soon  builded  a  clear  enough  idea  of  his 
aspect;  and  I  promised  myself  a  curious  gratifica- 
tion in  comparing  anon  this  idea  with  his  aspect 
as  it  really  was. 

Yes,  I  took  it  for  granted  that  the  expectant 
statue  was  to  be  unveiled  within  the  next  few 
days.  I  was  glad  to  be  in  time — not  knowing  in 
how  terribly  good  time  I  was — for  the  ceremony. 
Not  since  my  early  childhood  had  I  seen  the 
unveiling  of  a  statue;  and  on  that  occasion  I  had 
struck  a  discordant  note  by  weeping  bitterly.  I 
daresay  you  know  that  statue  of  William  Harvey 
which  stands  on  the  Leas  at  Folkestone.  You  say 
you  were  present  at  the  unveiling .f*  Well,  I  was  the 
child  who  cried.  I  had  been  told  that  William 
Harvey  was  a  great  and  good  man  who  discovered 
the  circulation  of  the  blood;  and  my  mind  had 
leapt,  in  all  the  swiftness  of  its  immaturity,  to  the 
conclusion  that  his  statue  would  be  a  bright  blood- 
red.  Cruel  was  the  thrill  of  dismay  I  had  when  at 
length  the  cord  was  pulled  and  the  sheeting  slid 
down,  revealing  so  dull  a  sight.  .  . 

Contemplating  the  veiled  Umberto,  I  remem- 
bered that  sight,  remembered  those  tears  unworthy 
(as  my  nurse  told  me)  of  a  little  gentleman.    Years 


MOBLED  KING  35 

had  passed.  I  was  grown  older  and  wiser.  I  had 
learnt  to  expect  less  of  life.  There  was  no  fear 
that  I  should  disgrace  myself  in  the  matter  of 
Umberto. 

I  was  not  so  old,  though,  nor  so  wise,  as  I  am 
now.  I  expected  more  than  there  is  of  Italian 
speed,  and  less  than  there  is  of  Italian  subtlety.  A 
whole  year  has  passed  since  first  I  set  eyes  on  veiled 
Umberto.     And  Umberto  is  still  veiled. 

And  veiled  for  more  than  a  whole  year,  as  I 
now  know,  had  Umberto  been  before  my  coming. 
Four  years  before  that,  the  municipal  council,  it 
seems,  had  voted  the  money  for  him.  His  father, 
of  sensational  memory,  was  here  already,  in  the 
middle  of  the  main  piazza,  of  course.  And  Gari- 
baldi was  hard  by ;  so  was  Mazzini ;  so  was  Cavour. 
Umberto  was  still  implicit  in  a  block  of  marble, 
high  upon  one  of  the  mountains  of  Carrara.  The 
task  of  educing  him  was  given  to  a  promising  young 
sculptor  who  lived  here.  Down  came  the  block  of 
marble,  and  was  transported  to  the  studio  of  the 
promising  young  sculptor;  and  out,  briskly  enough, 
mustachios  and  all,  came  Umberto.  He  looked 
very  regal,  I  ain  sure,  as  he  stood  glaring  around 
with  his  prominent  marble  eyeballs,  and  snuffing 
the  good  fresh  air  of  the  world  as  far  as  might 
be  into  shallow  marble  nostrils.  He  looked  very 
authoritative  and  fierce  and  solemn,  I  am  sure. 
He  made,  anyhow,  a  deep  impression  on  the  mayor 


36  AND  EVEN  NOW 

and  councillors,  and  the  only  question  was  as  to 
just  where  he  should  be  erected.  The  granite 
pedestal  had  already  been  hewn  and  graven;  but  a 
worthy  site  was  to  seek.  Outside  the  railway 
station?  He  would  obstruct  the  cabs.  In  the 
Giardino  Pubblico.f*  He  would  clash  with  Garibaldi. 
Every  councillor  had  a  pet  site,  and  every  other 
one  a  pet  objection  to  it.  That  strip  of  waste 
ground  where  the  fishermen  sat  pottering.'^  It  was 
too  humble,  too  far  from  the  centre  of  things. 
Meanwhile,  Umberto  stayed  in  the  studio.  Dust 
settled  on  his  epaulettes.  A  year  went  by.  Spiders 
ventured  to  spin  their  webs  from  his  plumes  to  his 
mustachios.  Another  year  went  by.  Whenever 
the  councillors  had  nothing  else  to  talk  about  they 
talked  about  the  site  for  Umberto. 

Presently  they  became  aware  that  among  the 
poorer  classes  of  the  town  had  arisen  a  certain 
hostility  to  the  statue.  The  councillors  suspected 
that  the  priesthood  had  been  at  work.  The 
forces  of  reaction  against  the  forces  of  progress! 
Very  well !  The  councillors  hurriedly  decided  that 
the  best  available  site,  on  the  whole,  was  that 
strip  of  waste  ground  where  the  fishermen  sat  pot- 
tering. The  pedestal  was  promptly  planted.  Um- 
berto was  promptly  wrapped  up,  put  on  a  lorry, 
wheeled  to  the  place,  and  hoisted  into  position. 
The  date  of  the  unveiling  was  fixed.  The  mayor 
I  am  told,  had  already  composed  his  speech,  and 


MOBLED  KING  37 

was  getting  it  by  heart.  Around  the  pedestal  the 
fishermen  sat  pottering.  It  was  not  observed  that 
they  received  any  visits  from  the  priests. 

But  priests  are  subtle;  and  it  is  a  fact  that 
three  days  before  the  date  of  the  unveiling  the 
fishermen  went,  all  in  their  black  Sunday  clothes, 
and  claimed  audience  of  the  mayor.  He  laid  aside 
the  MS.  of  his  speech,  and  received  them  affably. 
Old  Agostino,  their  spokesman,  he  whose  face  is  so 
marvellously  wrinkled,  lifted  his  quavering  voice. 
He  told  the  mayor,  with  great  respect,  that  the 
rights  of  the  fishermen  had  been  violated.  That 
piece  of  ground  had  for  hundreds  of  years  belonged 
to  them.  They  had  not  been  consulted  about  that 
statue.  They  did  not  want  it  there.  It  was  in 
the  way,  and  must  (said  Agostino)  be  removed. 
At  first  the  mayor  was  inclined  to  treat  the  deputa- 
tion with  a  light  good  humour,  and  to  resume  the 
study  of  his  MS.  But  Agostino  had  a  MS.  of  his 
own.  This  was  a  copy  of  a  charter  whereby, 
before  mayors  and  councillors  were,  the  right  to 
that  piece  of  land  had  been  granted  in  perpetuity 
to  the  fisherfolk  of  the  district.  The  mayor, 
not  committing  himself   to   any   opinion   of   the 

validity   of   the  document,  said  that  he but 

there,  it  is  tedious  to  report  the  speeches  of  mayors. 
Agostino  told  his  mayor  that  a  certain  great 
lawyer  would  be  arriving  from  Genoa  to-morrow. 
It  were  tedious  to  report  what  passed  between  that 


38  AND  EVEN  NOW 

great  lawyer  and  the  mayor  and  councillors  assem- 
bled. Suffice  it  that  the  councillors  were  frightened, 
the  date  of  the  unveiling  was  postponed,  and  the 
whole  matter,  referred  to  high  authorities  in  Rome, 
went  darkly  drifting  into  some  form  of  litigation, 
and  there  abides. 

Technically,  then,  neither  side  may  claim  that 
is  has  won.  The  statue  has  not  been  unveiled. 
But  the  statue  has  not  been  displaced.  Practically, 
though,  and  morally,  the  palm  is,  so  far,  to  the 
fishermen.  The  pedestal  does  not  really  irk  them 
at  all.  On  the  contrary,  it  and  the  sheeting  do 
cast  for  them  in  the  heat  a  pleasant  shadow,  of 
which  (the  influence  of  Fleet  Street,  once  felt,  never 
shaken  off,  forces  me  to  say)  they  are  not  slow  to 
avail  themselves.  And  the  cost  of  the  litigation 
comes  not,  you  may  be  sure,  out  of  their  light 
old  pockets,  but  out  of  the  coffers  of  some  pious 
rich  folk  hereabouts.  The  Pope  remains  a  prisoner 
in  the  Vatican  .^^  Well,  here  is  Umberto,  a  kind  of 
hostage.  Yet  with  what  a  difference !  Here  is  no 
spiritual  king  stripped  of  earthly  kingship.  Here  is 
an  earthly  king  kept  swaddled  up  day  after  day, 
to  be  publicly  ridiculous.  The  fishermen,  as  I 
have  said,  pay  him  no  heed.  The  mayor,  passing 
along  the  road,  looks  straight  in  front  of  him,  with 
an  elaborate  assumption  of  unconcern.  So  do 
the  councillors.  But  there  are  others  who  look 
maliciously  up  at  the  hapless  figure.     Now  and 


MOBLED  KING  39 

again  there  comes  a  monk  from  the  monastery  on 
that  hill  yonder.  He  laughs  into  his  beard  as  he 
goes  by.  Two  by  two,  in  their  grey  cloaks  and 
their  blue  mantillas,  the  little  orphan  girls  are 
sometimes  marched  past.  There  they  go,  as  I 
write.  Not  malice,  but  a  vague  horror,  is  in  the 
eyes  they  turn.  Umberto,  belike,  is  used  as  a 
means  to  frighten  them  when,  or  lest,  they  offend. 
The  nun  in  whose  charge  they  are  crosses  herself. 
Yet  it  is  recorded  of  Umberto  that  he  was  kind 
to  little  children.  This,  indeed,  is  one  of  the  few 
things  recorded  of  him.  Fierce  though  he  looked, 
he  was,  for  the  most  part,  it  must  be  confessed, 
null.  He  seldom  asserted  himself.  There  was  so 
little  of  that  for  him  to  assert.  He  had,  there- 
fore, no  personal  enemies.  In  a  negative  way,  he 
was  popular,  and  was  positively  popular,  for  a  while, 
after  his  assassination.  And  this  it  is  that  makes 
him  now  the  less  able,  poor  fellow,  to  understand 
and  endure  the  shame  he  is  put  to.  'Stat  rex 
indignatus.'  He  does  try  to  assert  himself  now — 
does  strive,  by  day  and  by  night,  poor  petrefact, 
to  rip  off  these  fell  and  clownish  integuments.  Of 
his  elder  brother  in  Paris  he  has  never  heard; 
but  he  knows  that  Lazarus  arisen  from  the  tomb 
did  not  live  in  grave-clothes.  He  forgets  that 
after  all  he  is  only  a  statue.  To  himself  he  is  still 
a  king — or  at  least  a  man  who  was  once  a  king  and, 
having  done  no  wrong,  ought  not  now  to  be  insulted. 


40  AND  EVEN  NOW 

If  he  had  in  his  composition  one  marble  grain  of 
humour,  he  might  .  .  .  but  no,  a  joke  against 
oneself  is  always  cryptic.  Fat  men  are  not  always 
the  best  drivers  of  fat  oxen;  and  cryptic  statues 
cannot  be  depended  on  to  see  cryptic  jokes. 

If  Umberto  could  grasp  the  truth  that  no  man 
is  worthy  to  be  reproduced  as  a  statue;  if  he  could 
understand,  once  and  for  all,  that  the  unveiling  of 
him  were  itself  a  notable  disservice  to  him,  then 
might  his  wrath  be  turned  to  acquiescence,  and  his 
acquiescence  to  gratitude,  and  he  be  quite  happy 
hid.  Is  he,  really,  more  ridiculous  now  than  he 
always  was?  If  you  be  an  extraordinary  man,  as 
was  his  father,  win  a  throne  by  all  means:  you 
will  fill  it.  If  your  son  be  another  extraordinary 
man,  he  will  fill  it  when  his  turn  comes.  But  if 
that  son  be,  as,  alas,  he  most  probably  will  be,  like 
Umberto,  quite  ordinary,  then  let  parental  love 
triumph  over  pride  of  dynasty :  advise  your  boy  to 
abdicate  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  A  great 
king — what  better .f*  But  it  is  ill  that  a  throne 
be  sat  on  by  one  whose  legs  dangle  uncertainly 
towards  the  dais,  and  ill  that  a  crown  settle  down 
over  the  tip  of  the  nose.  And  the  very  fact  that 
for  quite  inadequate  kings  men's  hands  do  leap  to 
the  salute,  instinctively,  does  but  make  us,  on  re- 
flection, the  more  conscious  of  the  whole  absurdity. 
Even  than  a  great  man  on  a  throne  we  can,  when 
we  reflect,  imagine  something — ah,  not  something 


MOBLED  KING  41 

better  perhaps,  but  something  more  remote  from 
absurdity.  Let  us  say  that  Umberto's  father  was 
great,  as  well  as  extraordinary.  He  was  accounted 
great  enough  to  be  the  incarnation  of  a  great  idea. 
*  United  Italy' — oh  yes,  a  great  idea,  a  charming 
idea:  in  the  'sixties  I  should  have  been  all  for  it. 
But  how  shall  I  or  any  other  impartial  person  write 
odes  to  the  reality?  What  people  in  all  this  ex- 
quisite peninsula  are  to-day  the  happier  for  the 
things  done  by  and  through  Vittorio  Emmanuele 
Liberator? 

The  question  is  not  merely  rhetorical.  There  is 
the  large  class  of  politicians,  who  would  have  had 
no  scope  in  the  old  days.  And  there  are  the  many 
men  who  in  other  days  would  have  been  fishing 
or  ploughing,  but  now  strut  in  this  and  that  oflBcial 
uniform.  There  passes  between  me  and  the  sea, 
as  I  write — how  opportunely  people  do  pass  here ! — 
a  little  man  with  a  peaked  cap  and  light  blue 
breeches  and  a  sword.  His  prime  duty  is  to  see 
that  none  of  his  fellow  peasants  shall  carry  home 
a  bucket  of  sea-water.  For  there  is  salt  in  sea- 
water;  and  heavily,  because  they  must  have  it  or 
sicken,  salt  is  taxed;  and  this  passing  sentinel  is 
to  prevent  them  from  cheating  the  Revenue  by 
recourse  to  the  sea  which,  though  here  it  is,  they 
must  not  regard  as  theirs.  What  becomes  of 
the  tax-money?  It  goes  towards  the  building 
of  battleships,   cruisers,    gunboats  and  so  forth. 


42  AND  EVEN  NOW 

What  are  these  for?  Why,  for  Italy  to  be  a  Great 
European  Power  with,  of  course.  In  the  little 
blue  bay  behind  Umberto,  while  I  write,  there 
lies  at  anchor  an  Italian  gunboat.  Opportunely 
again?  I  can  but  assure  you  that  it  really  and 
truly  is  there.  It  has  been  there  for  two  days. 
It  delights  the  fishermen.  They  say  it  is  'bella  e 
pulita  corn  un  fiore.'  They  stand  shading  their 
eyes  towards  it,  smiling  and  proud,  heirs  of  all  the 
ages,  neglecting  their  sails  and  nets  and  spars  of 
wood.  They  can  imagine  nothing  better  than  it. 
They  see  nothing  at  all  sinister  or  absurd  about  it, 
these  simple  fellows.  And  simple  Umberto,  their 
captive,  strives  to  wheel  round  on  his  pedestal  and 
to  tear  but  a  peep-hole  in  his  sheeting.  He  would 
be  glad  could  he  feast  but  one  eye  on  this  bit  of 
national  glory.  But  he  remains  helpless — helpless 
as  a  Sultana  made  ready  for  the  Bosphorus,  helpless 
as  a  pig  is  in  a  poke.  It  enrages  him  that  he  who 
was  so  eminently  respectable  in  life  should  be  made 
so  ludicrous  on  his  eminence  after  death.  He  is 
bitter  at  the  inertia  of  the  men  who  set  him  up. 
Were  he  an  ornament  of  the  Church,  not  of  the 
State  that  he  served  so  conscientiously,  how  very 
different  would  be  the  treatment  of  his  plight !  If 
he  were  a  Saint,  occluded  thus  by  the  municipality, 
how  many  the  prayers  that  would  be  muttered,  the 
candles  promised,  for  his  release !  There  would  be 
processions,  too;  and  who  knows  but  that  there 


MOBLED  KING  43 

might  even  be  a  miracle  vouchsafed,  a  rending  of 
the  veil?  The  only  procession  that  passes  him  is 
that  of  the  intimidated  orphans.  No  heavenly- 
power  intervenes  for  him — perhaps  (he  bitterly 
conjectures)  for  fear  of  offending  the  Vatican. 
Sirocco,  now  and  again,  blows  furiously  at  his 
back,  but  never  splits  the  sheeting.  Rain  often 
soaks  it,  never  rots  it.  There  is  no  help  for  him. 
He  stands  a  mock  to  the  pious,  a  shame  and  incu- 
bus to  the  emancipated;  received,  yet  hushed  up; 
exalted,  yet  made  a  fool  of;  taken  and  left;  a 
monument  to  Fate's  malice. 

From  under  the  hem  of  his  weather-beaten 
domino,  always,  he  just  displays,  with  a  sort  of 
tragic  coquetry,  the  toe  of  a  stout  and  serviceable 
marble  boot.  And  this,  I  have  begun  to  believe, 
is  all  that  I  shall  ever  see  of  him.  Else  might  I 
not  be  writing  about  him;  for  else  had  he  not  so 
haunted  me.  If  I  knew  myself  destined  to  see 
him — to  see  him  steadily  and  see  him  whole— no 
matter  how  many  years  hence,  I  could  forthwith 
think  about  other  things.  I  had  hoped  that  by 
this  essay  I  might  rid  my  mind  of  him.  He  is 
inexcutible,  confound  him!  His  pedestal  draws 
me  to  itself  with  some  such  fascination  as  had  the 
altar  of  the  unknown  god  for  the  wondering  Greek. 
I  try  to  distract  myself  by  thinking  of  other  images 
— images  that  I  have  seen.  I  think  of  Bartolommeo 
Colleoni  riding  greatly  forth  under  the  shadow  of 


44  AND  EVEN  NOW 

the  church  of  Saint  John  and  Saint  Paul.  Of  Mr. 
Peabody  I  think,  cosy  in  his  armchair  behind  the 
Royal  Exchange;  of  Nelson  above  the  sparrows, 
and  of  Perseus  among  the  pigeons;  of  golden 
Albert,  and  of  Harvey  the  not  red.  Up  looms 
Umberto,  uncouthly  casting  them  one  and  all  into 
the  shade.  I  think  of  other  statues  that  I  have 
not  seen — statues  suspected  of  holding  something 
back  from  even  the  clearest-eyed  men  who  have 
stood  beholding  and  soliciting  them.  But  how 
obvious,  beside  Umberto,  the  Sphinx  would  be! 
And  Memnon,  how  tamely  he  sits  waiting  for  the 
dawn! 

Matchless  as  a  memorial,  then,  I  say  again,  this 
statue  is.  And  as  a  work  of  art  it  has  at  least  the 
advantage  of  being  beyond  criticism.  In  my  young 
days,  I  wrote  a  plea  that  all  the  statues  in  the 
streets  and  squares  of  London  should  be  extirpated 
and,  according  to  their  materials,  smashed  or 
melted.  From  an  aesthetic  standpoint,  I  went  a 
trifle  too  far:  London  has  a  few  good  statues. 
From  an  humane  standpoint,  my  plea  was  all 
wrong.  Let  no  violence  be  done  to  the  effigies  of 
the  dead.  There  is  disrespect  in  setting  up  a  dead 
man's  effigy  and  then  not  unveiling  it.  But  there 
would  be  no  disrespect,  and  there  would  be  no 
violence,  if  the  bad  statues  familiar  to  London  were 
ceremoniously  veiled,  and  their  inscribed  pedestals 
left  just  as  they  are.     That  is  a  scheme  which 


MOBLED  KING  45 

occurred  to  me  soon  after  I  saw  the  veiled  Umberto. 
Mr.  Birrell  has  now  stepped  in  and  forestalled  my 
advocacy.  Pereant  qui — but  no,  who  could  wish 
that  charming  man  to  perish?  The  realisation  of 
that  scheme  is  what  matters. 

Let  an  inventory  be  taken  of  those  statues.  Let 
it  be  submitted  to  Lord  Rosebery.  Let  him  be 
asked  to  tick  off  all  those  statesmen,  poets,  phi- 
losophers and  other  personages  about  whom  he 
would  wish  to  orate.  Then  let  the  list  be  passed  on 
to  other  orators,  until  every  statue  on  it  shall  have 
its  particular  spokesman.  Then  let  the  dates  for 
the  various  veilings  be  appointed.  If  there  be  four 
or  five  veilings  every  week,  I  conceive  that  the 
whole  list  will  be  exliausted  in  two  years  or  so. 
And  my  enjoyment  of  the  reported  speeches  will 
not  be  the  less  keen  because  I  can  so  well  imagine 
them.  ...  In  conclusion.  Lord  Rosebery  said  that 
the  keynote  to  the  character  of  the  man  in  whose 
honour  they  were  gathered  together  to-day  was, 
first  and  last,  integrity.  (Applause.)  He  did  not 
say  of  him  that  he  had  been  infallible.  Which  of 
us  was  infallible?  (Laughter.)  But  this  he  would 
say,  that  the  great  man  whose  statue  they  were 
looking  on  for  the  last  time  had  been  actuated 
throughout  his  career  by  no  motive  but  the  desire 
to  do  that,  and  that  only,  which  would  conduce  to 
the  honour  and  to  the  stability  of  the  country  that 
gave  him  birth.    Of  him  it  might  truly  be  said,  as 


46  AND  EVEN  NOW 

had  been  said  of  another,  'That  which  he  had  to 
give,  he  gave.'  (Loud  and  prolonged  applause.) 
His  Lordship  then  pulled  the  cord,  and  the  sheeting 
rolled  up  into  position.  .  . 

Not,  however,  because  those  speeches  will  so 
edify  and  soothe  me,  nor  merely  because  those 
veiled  statues  will  make  less  uncouth  the  city  I 
was  born  in,  do  I  feverishly  thrust  on  you  my 
proposition.  The  wish  in  me  is  that  posterity  shall 
be  haunted  by  our  dead  heroes  even  as  I  am  by 
Umberto.  Rather  hard  on  posterity?  Well,  the 
prevision  of  its  plight  would  cheer  me  in  mine 
immensely. 


KOLNIYATSCH 


KOLNIYATSCH 

1913- 

NONE  of  us  who  keep  an  eye  on  the  heavens  of 
European  literature  can  forget  the  emotion 
that  we  felt  when,  but  a  few  years  since, 
the  red  star  of  Kolniyatsch  swam  into  our  ken.  As 
nobody  can  prove  that  I  wasn't,  I  claim  now  that 
I  was  the  first  to  gauge  the  magnitude  of  this  star 
and  to  predict  the  ascendant  course  which  it  has 
in  fact  triumphantly  taken.  That  was  in  the 
days  when  Kolniyatsch  was  still  alive.  His  recent 
death  gives  the  cue  for  the  boom.  Out  of  that 
boom  I,  for  one,  will  not  be  left.  I  rush  to  scrawl 
my  name,  large,  on  the  tombstone  of  Kolniyatsch. 
These  foreign  fellows  always  are  especially  to  be 
commended.  By  the  mere  mention  of  their  names 
you  evoke  in  reader  or  hearer  a  vague  sense  of  your 
superiority  and  his.  Thank  heaven,  we  are  no 
longer  insular.  I  don't  say  we  have  no  native 
talent.  We  have  heaps  of  it,  pyramids  of  it,  all 
around.  But  where,  for  the  genuine  thrill,  would 
England  be  but  for  her  good  fortune  in  being  able 
to  draw  on  a  seemingly  inexhaustible  supply  of 
anguished    souls   from   the   Continent — infantile, 

49 


50  AND  EVEN  NOW 

wide-eyed  Slavs,  Titan  Teutons,  greatly  blighted 
Scandinavians,  all  of  them  different,  but  all  of  them 
raving  in  one  common  darkness  and  with  one 
common  gesture  plucking  out  their  vitals  for 
exportation?  There  is  no  doubt  that  our  con- 
tinuous receipt  of  this  commodity  has  had  a 
bracing  effect  on  our  national  character.  We  used 
to  be  rather  phlegmatic,  used  we  not?  We  have 
learnt  to  be  vibrant. 

Of  Kolniyatsch,  as  of  all  authentic  master-spirits 
in  literature,  it  is  true  that  he  must  be  judged 
rather  by  what  he  wrote  than  by  what  he  was. 
But  the  quality  of  his  genius,  albeit  nothing  if 
not  national  and  also  universal,  is  at  the  same 
time  so  deeply  personal  that  we  cannot  afford  to 
close  our  eyes  on  his  life — a  life  happily  not  void 
of  those  sensational  details  which  are  what  we  all 
really  care  about. 

'If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 
Kolniyatsch  was  born,  last  of  a  long  line  of  rag- 
pickers, in  1886.  At  the  age  of  nine  he  had  already 
acquired  that  passionate  alcoholism  which  was  to 
have  so  great  an  influence  in  the  moulding  of  his 
character  and  on  the  trend  of  his  thought.  Other- 
wise he  does  not  seem  to  have  shown  in  childhood 
any  exceptional  promise.  It  was  not  before  his 
eighteenth  birthday  that  he  murdered  his  grand- 
mother and  was  sent  to  that  asylum  in  which  he 
wrote  the  poems  and  plays  belonging  to  what  we 


KOLNIYATSCH  51 

now  call  his  earlier  manner.  In  1907  he  escaped 
from  his  sanctum,  or  chuzketc  (cell)  as  he  sardonic- 
ally called  it,  and,  having  acquired  some  money 
by  an  act  of  violence,  gave,  by  sailing  for  America, 
early  proof  that  his  genius  was  of  the  Idnd  that 
crosses  frontiers  and  seas.  Unfortunately,  it  was 
not  of  the  kind  that  passes  Ellis  Island.  America, 
to  her  lasting  shame,  turned  him  back.  Early 
in  1908  we  find  him  once  more  in  his  old 
quarters,  working  at  those  novels  and  confessions 
on  which,  in  the  opinion  of  some,  his  fame  will  ulti- 
mately rest.  Alas,  we  don't  find  him  there  now.  It 
will  be  a  fortnight  ago  to-morrow  that  Luntic 
Kolniyatsch  passed  peacefully  away,  in  the  twenty- 
eighth  year  of  his  age.  He  would  have  been  the 
last  to  wish  us  to  indulge  in  any  sickly  sentimen- 
tality. 'Nothing  is  here  for  tears,  nothing  but 
well  and  fair,  and  what  may  quiet  us  in  a  death  so 
noble.' 

Was  Kolniyatsch  mad?  It  depends  on  what 
we  mean  by  that  word.  If  we  mean,  as  the  bureau- 
crats of  Ellis  Island  and,  to  their  lasting  shame,  his 
friends  and  relations  presumably  meant,  that  he 
did  not  share  our  own  smug  and  timid  philosophy 
of  life,  then  indeed  was  Kolniyatsch  not  sane. 
Granting  for  sake  of  argument  that  he  was  mad  in 
a  wider  sense  than  that,  we  do  but  oppose  an 
insuperable  stumbling-block  to  the  Eugenists. 
Imagine    what    Europe    would    be    to-day,    had 


52  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Kolniyatsch  not  been!  As  one  of  the  critics 
avers,  'It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  a  time 
may  be  not  far  distant,  and  may  indeed  be  nearer 
than  many  of  us  suppose,  when  Luntic  Kolniyatsch 
will,  rightly  or  wrongly,  be  reckoned  by  some 
of  us  as  not  the  least  of  those  writers  who  are 
especially  symptomatic  of  the  early  twentieth 
century  and  are  possibly  "for  all  time"  or  for  a 
more  or  less  certainly  not  inconsiderable  period  of 
time.'  That  is  finely  said.  But  I  myself  go 
somewhat  further.  I  say  that  Kolniyatsch 's  mes- 
sage has  drowned  all  previous  messages  and  will 
drown  any  that  may  be  uttered  in  the  remotest 
future.  You  ask  me  what,  precisely,  that  message 
was?  Well,  it  is  too  elemental,  too  near  to  the 
very  heart  of  naked  Nature,  for  exact  definition. 
Can  you  describe  the  message  of  an  angry  python 
more  satisfactorily  than  as  S-s-s-sf  Or  that  of 
an  infuriated  bull  better  than  as  Moof  That  of 
Kolniyatsch  lies  somewhere  between  these  two. 
Indeed,  at  whatever  point  we  take  him,  we  find 
him  hard  to  fit  into  any  single  category.  Was 
he  a  realist  or  a  romantic?  He  was  neither, 
and  he  was  both.  By  more  than  one  critic  he 
has  been  called  a  pessimist,  and  it  is  true  that  a 
part  of  his  achievement  may  be  gauged  by  the 
lengths  to  which  he  carried  pessimism — railing  and 
raging,  not,  in  the  manner  of  his  tame  forerunners, 
merely  at  things  in  general,  or  at  women,  or  at 


KOLNIYATSCH  53 

himself,  but  lavishing  an  equally  fierce  scorn  and 
hatred  on  children,  on  trees  and  flowers  and  the 
moon,  and  indeed  on  everything  that  the  senti- 
mentalists have  endeavoured  to  force  into  favour. 
On  the  other  hand,  his  burning  faith  in  a  per- 
sonal Devil,  his  frank  delight  in  earthquakes  and 
pestilences,  and  his  belief  that  every  one  but 
himself  will  be  brought  back  to  life  in  time  to 
be  frozen  to  death  in  the  next  glacial  epoch, 
seem  rather  to  stamp  him  as  an  optimist.  By 
birth  and  training  a  man  of  the  people,  he  was 
yet  an  aristocrat  to  the  finger-tips,  and  Byron 
would  have  called  him  brother,  though  one  trembles 
to  think  what  he  would  have  called  Byron.  First 
and  last,  he  was  an  artist,  and  it  is  by  reason  of  his 
technical  mastery  that  he  most  of  all  outstands. 
Whether  in  prose  or  in  verse,  he  compasses  a  broken 
rhythm  that  is  as  the  very  rhythm  of  life  itself, 
and  a  cadence  that  catches  you  by  the  throat, 
as  a  terrier  catches  a  rat,  and  wrings  from  you  the 
last  drop  of  pity  and  awe.  His  skill  in  avoiding 
'the  inevitable  word'  is  simply  miraculous.  He 
is  the  despair  of  the  translator.  Far  be  it  from  me 
to  belittle  the  devoted  labours  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Pegaway,  whose  monumental  translation  of  the 
Master's  complete  works  is  now  drawing  to  its 
splendid  close.  Their  promised  biography  of  the 
murdered  grandmother  is  awaited  eagerly  by  all 
who  take — and   which   of  us  does   not  take? — a 


54  AND  EVEN  NOW 

breathless  interest  in  Kolniyatschiana.  But  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Pegaway  would  be  the  first  to  admit 
that  their  renderings  of  the  prose  and  verse  they 
love  so  well  are  a  wretched  substitute  for  the  real 
thing.  I  wanted  to  get  the  job  myself,  but  they 
nipped  in  and  got  it  before  me.  Thank  heaven, 
they  cannot  deprive  me  of  the  power  to  read 
Kolniyatsch  in  the  original  Gibrisch  and  to  crow 
over  you  who  can't. 

Of  the  man  himself — for  on  several  occasions 
I  had  the  privilege  and  the  permit  to  visit  him — 
I  have  the  pleasantest,  most  sacred  memories. 
His  was  a  wonderfully  vivid  and  intense  person- 
ality. The  head  was  beautiful,  perfectly  conic  in 
form.  The  eyes  were  like  two  revolving  lamps,  set 
very  close  together.  The  smile  was  haunting. 
There  was  a  touch  of  old-world  courtesy  in  the  re- 
pression of  the  evident  impulse  to  spring  at  one's 
throat.  The  voice  had  notes  that  recalled  M. 
Mounet-Sully's  in  the  later  and  more  important 
passages  of  Oedipe  Roi.  I  remember  that  he  al- 
ways spoke  with  the  greatest  contempt  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Pegaway's  translations.     He  likened  them  to 

but  enough !     His  boom  is  not  yet  at  the  full. 

A  few  weeks  hence  I  shall  be  able  to  command  an 
even  higher  price  than  I  could  now  for  my  'Talks 
with  Kolniyatsch.' 


No.  2.    THE    PINES 


No.  2.     THE    PINES 

[Early  in  the  year  1914  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse  fold  me  he  was  asking 
certain  of  his  friends  to  tvrite  for  him  a  few  words  apiece  in  descrip- 
tion of  Svnnburne  as  they  had  known  or  seen  him  at  one  time  or 
another;  and  he  was  so  good  as  to  wish  to  inchtde  in  this  gathering 
a  few  words  by  myself.  I  found  it  hard  to  be  brief  without  seeming 
irreverent.  I  failed  in  the  attempt  to  make  of  my  subject  a  snapshot 
that  was  not  a  grotesque.  So  I  took  refuge  in  an  ampler  scope.  I 
torote  a  reminiscential  essay.  From  that  essay  I  made  an  extract, 
which  I  gave  to  Mr.  Gosse.  From,  that  extract  he  made  a  quotation 
in  his  enchariting  biography.  The  words  quoted  by  him  reappear 
here  in  the  midst  of  the  whole  essay  as  I  urate  it.  I  dare  not  hope 
they  are  unashamed  of  their  humble  surroundings, — M,  B.\ 

IN  my  youth  the  suburbs  were  rather  looked 
down  on — I  never  quite  knew  why.  It  was 
held  anomalous,  and  a  matter  for  merri- 
ment, that  Swinburne  lived  in  one  of  them.  For 
my  part,  had  I  known  as  a  fact  that  Catullus  was 
still  alive,  I  should  have  been  as  ready  to  imagine 
him  living  in  Putney  as  elsewhere.  The  marvel 
would  have  been  merely  that  he  lived.  And 
Swinburne's  survival  struck  as  surely  as  could  his 
have  struck  in  me  the  chord  of  wonder. 

Not,  of  course,  that  he  had  achieved  a  feat  of 

57 


58  AND  EVEN  NOW 

longevity.  He  was  far  from  the  Psalmist's  limit. 
Nor  was  lie  one  of  those  men  whom  one  associates 
with  the  era  in  which  they  happened  to  be  young. 
Indeed,  if  there  was  one  man  belonging  less  than 
any  other  to  Mid-Victorian  days,  Swinburne  was 
that  man.  But  by  the  calendar  it  was  in  those 
days  that  he  had  blazed — blazed  forth  with  so 
unexampled  a  suddenness  of  splendour;  and  in 
the  light  of  that  conflagration  all  that  he  had 
since  done,  much  and  magnificent  though  this  was, 
paled.  The  essential  Swinburne  was  still  the 
earliest.  He  was  and  would  always  be  the  flammi- 
ferous  boy  of  the  dim  past — a  legendary  creature, 
sole  kin  to  the  phcenix.  It  had  been  impossible 
that  he  should  ever  surpass  himself  in  the  artistry 
that  was  from  the  outset  his;  impossible  that 
he  should  bring  forth  rhythms  lovelier  and  greater 
than  those  early  rhythms,  or  exercise  over  them 
a  mastery  more  than — absolute.  Also,  It  had  been 
impossible  that  the  first  wild  ardour  of  spirit 
should  abide  unslnkingly  In  him.  Youth  goes. 
And  there  was  not  in  Swinburne  that  basis  on 
which  a  man  may  in  his  maturity  so  build  as  to 
make  good,  in  some  degree,  the  loss  of  what  is  gone. 
He  was  not  a  thinker:  his  mind  rose  ever  away 
from  reason  to  rhapsody;  neither  was  he  human. 
He  was  a  king  crowned  but  not  throned.  He  was 
a  singing  bird  that  could  build  no  nest.  He  was  a 
youth  who  could  not  afford  to  age.     Had  he  died 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  59 

young,  literature  would  have  lost  many  glories; 
but  none  so  great  as  the  glories  he  had  already 
given,  nor  any  such  as  we  should  fondly  imagine 
ourselves  bereft  of  by  his  early  death.  A  great 
part  of  Keats'  fame  rests  on  our  assumption  of 
what  he  would  have  done.  But — even  granting 
that  Keats  may  have  had  in  him  more  than  had 
Swinburne  of  stuff  for  development— I  believe  that 
had  he  lived  on  we  should  think  of  him  as  author 
of  the  poems  that  in  fact  we  know.  Not  philosophy, 
after  all,  not  humanity,  just  sheer  joyous  power  of 
song,  is  the  primal  thing  in  poetry.  Ideas,  and 
flesh  and  blood,  are  but  reserves  to  be  brought  up 
when  the  poet's  youth  is  going.  When  the  bird 
can  no  longer  sing  in  flight,  let  the  nest  be  ready. 
After  the  king  has  dazzled  us  with  his  crown, 
let  him  have  something  to  sit  down  on.  But  the 
session  on  throne  or  in  nest  is  not  the  divine  period. 
Had  Swinburne's  genius  been  of  the  kind  that 
solidifies,  he  would  yet  at  the  close  of  the  nineteenth 
century  have  been  for  us  young  men  virtually — 
though  not  so  definitely  as  in  fact  he  was — the 
writer  of  'Atalanta  in  Calydon'  and  of  'Poems 
and  Ballads.' 

Tennyson's  death  in  '98  had  not  taken  us  at  all 
by  surprise.  We  had  been  fully  aware  that  he  was 
alive.  He  had  always  been  careful  to  keep  himself 
abreast  of  the  times.  Anything  that  came  along — ■ 
the    Nebular    Hypothesis    at    one    moment,    the 


,  60  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Imperial  Institute  at  another — won  mention  from 
his  Muse.  He  had  husbanded  for  his  old  age  that 
which  he  had  long  ago  inherited:  middle  age. 
If  in  our  mourning  for  him  there  really  was  any 
tincture  of  surprise,  this  was  due  to  merely  the 
vague  sense  that  he  had  in  the  fullness  of  time  died 
rather  prematurely:  his  middle-age  might  have 
been  expected  to  go  on  flourishing  for  ever.  But 
assuredly  Tennyson  dead  laid  no  such  strain  on 
our  fancy  as  Swinburne  living.    ^ 

It  is  true  that  Swinburne  did,  from  time  to  time, 
take  public  notice  of  current  affairs;  but  what 
notice  he  took  did  but  seem  to  mark  his  remoteness 
from  them,  from  us.  The  Boers,  I  remember, 
were  the  theme  of  a  sonnet  which  embarrassed 
even  their  angriest  enemies  in  our  midst.  He 
likened  them,  if  I  remember  rightly,  to  'hell- 
hounds foaming  at  the  jaws.'  This  was  by  some 
people  taken  as  a  sign  that  he  had  fallen  away  from 
that  high  generosity  of  spirit  which  had  once 
been  his.  To  me  it  meant  merely  that  he  thought 
of  poor  little  England  writhing  under  the  heel  of  an 
alien  despotism,  just  as,  in  the  days  when  he  really 
was  interested  in  such  matters,  poor  little  Italy 
had  writhen.  I  suspect,  too,  that  the  first  impulse 
to  write  about  the  Boers  came  not  from  the  Muse 
within,  but  from  Theodore  Watts-Dunton  with- 
out. .  .  .  'Now,  Algernon,  we're  at  war,  you 
know — at  war  with  the  Boers.     I  don't  want  to 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  61 

bother  you  at  all,  but  I  do  think,  my  dear  old 
friend,  you  oughtn't  to  let  slip  this  opportunity 
of,'  etc.,  etc. 

Some  such  hortation  is  easily  imaginable  by 
any  one  who  saw  the  two  old  friends  together. 
The  first  time  I  had  this  honour,  this  sight  for 
lasting  and  affectionate  memory,  must  have  been 
in  the  Spring  of  '99.  In  those  days  Theodore 
Watts  (he  had  but  recently  taken  on  the  -Dunton) 
was  still  something  of  a  gad-about.  I  had  met  him 
here  and  there,  he  had  said  in  his  stentorian  tones 
pleasant  things  to  me  about  my  writing,  I  sent  him 
a  new  little  book  of  mine,  and  in  acknowledging  this 
he  asked  me  to  come  down  to  Putney  and  'have 
luncheon  and  meet  Swinburne.'     Meet  Catullus! 

On  the  day  appointed  '  I  came  as  one  whose  feet  V 
half  linger.'  It  is  but  a  few  steps  from  the  railway- 
station  in  Putney  High  Street  to  No.  2.  The  Pines. 
I  had  expected  a  greater  distance  to  the  sanctuary 
— a  walk  in  which  to  compose  my  mind  and  prepare 
myself  for  initiation.  I  laid  my  hand  irresolutely 
against  the  gate  of  the  bleak  trim  front-garden, 
I  withdrew  my  hand,  I  went  away.  Out  here  were 
aU  the  aspects  of  common  modern  life.  In  there 
was  Swinburne.  A  butcher-boy  went  by,  whistling. 
He  was  not  going  to  see  Swinburne.  He  could 
afford  to  whistle.  I  pursued  my  dilatory  course  up 
the  slope  of  Putney,  but  at  length  it  occurred  to  me 
that  unpunctuality  would  after  all  be  an  imperfect 


62  AND  EVEN  NOW 

expression  of  reverence,  and  I  retraced  my  foot- 
steps. 

No.  2 — prosaic  inscription!  But  as  that  front- 
door closed  behind  me  I  had  the  instant  sense  of 
having  slipped  away  from  the  harsh  light  of  the 
ordinary  and  contemporary  into  the  dimness  of 
an  odd,  august  past.  Here,  in  this  dark  hall,  the 
past  was  the  present.  Here  loomed  vivid  arid  vital 
on  the  walls  those  women  of  Rossetti  whom  I  had 
known  but  as  shades.  Familiar  to  me  in  small 
reproductions  by  photogravure,  here  they  them- 
selves were,  life-sized,  'with  curled-up  lips  and 
amorous  hair'  done  in  the  original  warm  crayon, 
all  of  them  intently  looking  down  on  me  while  I 
took  off  my  overcoat — all  wondering  who  was  this 
intruder  from  posterity.  That  they  hung  in  the 
hall,  evidently  no  more  than  an  overflow,  was  an 
earnest  of  packed  plenitude  within.  The  room  I 
was  ushered  into  was  a  back-room,  a  dining-room, 
looking  on  to  a  good  garden.  It  was,  in  form 
and  'fixtures,'  an  inalienably  IVIid-Victorian  room, 
and  held  its  stolid  own  in  the  riot  of  Rossettis. 
Its  proportions,  its  window-sash  bisecting  the  view 
of  garden,  its  folding-doors  (through  which  I  heard 
the  voice  of  Watts-Dunton  booming  mysteriously 
in  the  front  room),  its  mantel-piece,  its  gas-brack- 
ets, all  proclaimed  that  nothing  ever  would  seduce 
them  from  their  allegiance  to  Martin  Tupper.  '  Nor 
me  from  mine,'  said  the  sturdy  cruet-stand  on  the 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  63 

long  expanse  of  table-cloth.  The  voice  of  Watts- 
Dunton  ceased  suddenly,  and  a  few  moments  later 
its  owner  appeared.  He  had  been  dictating,  he 
explained.  *A  great  deal  of  work  on  hand  just 
now — a  great  deal  of  work.'  ...  I  remember  that 
on  my  subsequent  visits  he  was  always,  at  the 
moment  of  my  arrival,  dictating,  and  always 
greeted  me  with  that  phrase,  'A  great  deal  of 
work  on  hand  just  now.'  I  used  to  wonder  what 
work  it  was,  for  he  published  little  enough.)  But 
I  never  ventured  to  inquire,  and  indeed  rather 
cherished  the  mystery:  it  was  a  part  of  the  dear 
little  old  man ;  it  went  with  the  something  gnome- 
like about  his  swarthiness  and  chubbiness — went 
with  the  shaggy  hair  that  fell  over  the  collar  of  his 
eternally  crumpled  frock-coat,  the  shaggy  eye- 
brows that  overhung  his  bright  little  brown  eyes, 
the  shaggy  moustache  that  hid  his  small  round 
chin.  It  was  a  mystery  inherent  in  the  richly- 
laden  atmosphere  of  The  Pines.    .  .  . 

While  I  stood  talking  to  Watts-Dunton — talking 
as  loudly  as  he,  for  he  was  very  deaf — I  enjoyed  the 
thrill  of  suspense  in  watching  the  door  through 
which  would  appear — Swinburne.  I  asked  after 
Mr.  Swinburne's  health.  Watts-Dunton  said  it 
was  very  good:  'He  always  goes  out  for  his  long 
walk  in  the  morning — wonderfully  active.  Active 
in  mind,  too.  But  I'm  afraid  you  won't  be  able 
to  get  into  touch  with  him.     He's  almost  stone- 


64  AND  EVEN  NOW 

deaf,  poor  fellow — almost  stone-deaf  now.'  He 
changed  the  subject,  and  I  felt  I  must  be  careful 
not  to  seem  interested  in  Swinburne  exclusively. 
I  spoke  of  'Aylwin.'  The  parlourmaid  brought 
in  the  hot  dishes.  The  great  moment  was  at  hand. 
Nor  was  I  disappointed,  Swinburne's  entry  was 
for  me  a  great  moment.  Here,  suddenly  visible 
in  the  flesh,  was  the  legendary  being  and  divine 
singer.  Here  he  was,  shutting  the  door  behind  him 
as  might  anybody  else,  and  advancing — a  strange 
small  figure  in  grey,  having  an  air  at  once  noble 
and  roguish,  proud  and  skittish.  My  name  was 
roared  to  him.  In  shaking  his  hand,  I  bowed  low, 
of  course — a  bow  de  coeur;  and  he,  in  the  old 
aristocratic  manner,  bowed  equally  low,  but  with 
such  swiftness  that  we  narrowly  escaped  concus- 
sion. You  do  not  usually  associate  a  man  of 
genius,  when  you  see  one,  with  any  social  class; 
and,  Swinburne  being  of  an  aspect  so  unrelated  as 
it  was  to  any  species  of  human  kind,  I  wondered 
the  more  that  almost  the  first  impression  he  made 
on  me,  or  would  make  on  any  one,  was  that  of  a 
very  great  gentleman  indeed.  Not  of  an  old 
gentleman,  either.  Sparse  and  straggling  though 
the  grey  hair  was  that  fringed  the  immense  pale 
dome  of  his  head,  and  venerably  haloed  though  he 
was  for  me  by  his  greatness,  there  was  yet  about 
him  something — boyish .^^  girlish.'^  childish,  rather; 
something  of  a  beautifully  well-bred  child.     But  he 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  65 

had  the  eyes  of  a  god,  and  the  smile  of  an  elf.  In 
figure,  at  first  glance,  he  seemed  almost  fat;  but 
this  was  merely  because  of  the  way  he  carried  him- 
self, with  his  long  neck  strained  so  tightly  back 
that  he  all  receded  from  the  waist  upwards.  I 
noticed  afterwards  that  this  deportment  made  the 
back  of  his  jacket  hang  quite  far  away  from  his 
legs;  and  so  small  and  sloping  were  his  shoulders 
that  the  jacket  seemed  ever  so  likely  to  slip  right 
off.  I  became  aware,  too,  that  when  he  bowed  he 
did  not  unbend  his  back,  but  only  his  neck — the 
length  of  the  neck  accounting  for  the  depth  of  the 
bow.  His  hands  were  tiny,  even  for  his  size,  and 
they  fluttered  helplessly,  touchingly,  unceasingly. 

Directly  after  my  introduction,  we  sat  down  fcT 
the  meal.  Of  course  I  had  never  hoped  to  'get 
into  touch  with  him'  reciprocally.  Quite  apart 
from  his  deafness,  I  was  too  modest  to  suppose  he 
could  be  interested  in  anything  I  might  say.  But 
— for  I  knew  he  had  once  been  as  high  and  copious 
a  singer  in  talk  as  in  verse — I  had  hoped  to  hear 
utterances  from  him.  And  it  did  not  seem  that  my 
hope  was  to  be  fulfilled.  Watts-Dunton  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  with  a  huge  and  very  Tupper- 
esque  joint  of  roast  mutton  in  front  of  him,  Swin- 
burne and  myself  close  up  to  him  on  either  side. 
He  talked  only  to  me.  This  was  the  more  tantalis- 
ing because  Swinburne  seemed  as  though  he  were 
bubbling  over  with  all  sorts  of  notions.     Not  that 


66  AND  EVEN  NOW 

he  looked  at  either  of  us.  He  smiled  only  to  him- 
self, and  to  his  plateful  of  meat,  and  to  the  small 
bottle  of  Bass's  pale  ale  that  stood  before  him — 
ultimate  allowance  of  one  who  had  erst  clashed 
cymbals  in  Naxos.  This  small  bottle  he  eyed  often 
and  with  enthusiasm,  seeming  to  waver  between 
the  rapture  of  broaching  it  now  and  the  grandeur 
of  having  it  to  look  forward  to.  It  made  me  un- 
happy to  see  what  trouble  he  had  in  managing  his 
knife  and  fork.  Watts-Dunton  told  me  on  another 
occasion  that  this  infirmity  of  the  hands  had  been 
lifelong — had  begun  before  Eton  days.  The  Swin- 
burne family  had  been  alarmed  by  it  and  had 
consulted  a  specialist,  who  said  that  it  resulted  from 
'an  excess  of  electric  vitality,'  and  that  any  at- 
tempt to  stop  it  would  be  harmful.  So  they  had 
let  it  be.  I  have  known  no  man  of  genius  who  had 
not  to  pay,  in  some  affliction  or  defect  either 
physical  or  spiritual,  for  what  the  gods  had  given 
him.  Here,  in  this  fluttering  of  his  tiny  hands, 
was  a  part  of  the  price  that  Swinburne  had  to  pay. 
No  doubt  he  had  grown  accustomed  to  it  many 
lustres  before  I  met  him,  and  I  need  not  have  felt 
at  all  unhappy  at  what  I  tried  not  to  see.  He, 
evidently,  was  quite  gay,  in  his  silence — and  in  the 
world  that  was  for  him  silent.  I  had,  however, 
the  maddening  suspicion  that  he  would  have  liked 
to  talk.  Why  wouldn't  Watts-Dunton  roar  him  an 
opportunity?     I  felt  I  had  been  right  perhaps  in 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  67 

feeling  that  the  lesser  man  was — no,  not  jealous 
of  the  greater  whom  he  had  guarded  so  long  and 
with  such  love,  but  anxious  that  he  himself  should 
be  as  fully  impressive  to  visitors  as  his  fine  gifts 
warranted.  Not,  indeed,  that  he  monopolised  the 
talk.  He  seemed  to  regard  me  as  a  source  of 
information  about  all  the  latest  *  movements,' 
and  I  had  to  shout  banalities  while  he  munched  his 
mutton — banalities  whose  one  saving  grace  for  me 
was  that  they  were  inaudible  to  Swinburne.  Had 
I  met  Swinburne's  gaze,  I  should  have  faltered. 
Now  and  again  his  shining  light-grey  eyes  roved 
from  the  table,  darting  this  way  and  that — across 
the  room,  up  at  the  ceiling,  out  of  the  window; 
only  never  at  us.  Somehow  this  aloofness  gave  no 
hint  of  indifference.  It  seemed  to  be,  rather,  a 
point  in  good  manners — the  good  manners  of  a 
child  'sitting  up  to  table,'  not  'staring,'  not 
'asking  questions,'  and  reflecting  great  credit  on 
its  invaluable  old  nurse.  The  child  sat  happy  in 
the  wealth  of  its  inner  life;  the  child  was  content 
not  to  speak  until  it  were  spoken  to;  but,  but, 
I  felt  it  did  want  to  be  spoken  to.  And,  at  length, 
it  was.  (i 

So  soon  as  tne  mutton  had  been  replaced  by  tne 
apple-pie,  Watts-Dunton  leaned  forward  and '  Well, 
Algernon,',,  he  roared,  'how  was  it  on  the  Heath 
to-day?'  Swinburne,  who  had  meekly  inclined 
his  ear  to  the  question,  now  threw  back  his  head, 


V 


68  AND  EVEN  NOW 

uttering  a  sound  that  was  like  the  cooing  of  a  dove, 
and  forthwith,  rapidly,  ever  so  musically,  he  spoke 
to  us  of  his  walk;  spoke  not  in  the  strain  of  a  man 
who  had  been  taking  his  daily  exercise  on  Putney 
Heath,  but  rather  in  that  of  a  Peri  who  had  at  long 
last  been  suffered  to  pass  through  Paradise.  And 
rather  than  that  he  spoke  would  I  say  that  he 
cooingly  and  flutingly  sang  of  his  experience. 
The  wonders  of  this  morning's  wind  and  sun  and 
clouds  were  expressed  in  a  flow  of  words  so  right 
and  sentences  so  perfectly  balanced  that  they 
would  have  seemed  pedantic  had  they  not  been 
clearly  as  spontaneous  as  the  wordless  notes  of  a 
bird  in  song.  The  frail,  sweet  voice  rose  and  fell, 
lingered,  quickened,  in  all  manner  of  trills  and  rou- 
lades. That  he  himself  could  not  hear  it,  seemed  to 
me  the  greatest  loss  his  deafness  inflicted  on  him. 
One  would  have  expected  this  disability  to  mar  the 
music;  but  it  didn't;  save  that  now  and  again 
a  note  would  come  out  metallic  and  over-shrill, 
the  tones  were  under  good  control.  The  whole 
manner  and  method  had  certainly  a  strong  element 
of  oddness;  but  no  one  incapable  of  condemning 
as  unmanly  the  song  of  a  lark  would  have  called  it 
affected.  I  had  met  young  men  of  whose  enuncia- 
tion Swinburne's  now  reminded  me.  In  them  the 
thing  had  always  irritated  me  very  much;  and  I 
now  became  sure  that  it  had  been  derived  from 
people  who  had  derived  it  in  old  Balliol  days  from 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  69 

Swinburne  himself.  One  of  the  points  famihar  to 
me  in  such  enunciation  was  the  habit  of  stressing 
extremely,  and  lackadaisically  dwelling  on,  some 
particular  sjdlable.  In  Swinburne  this  trick  was 
delightful — because  it  wasn't  a  trick,  but  a  need  of 
his  heart.  Well  do  I  remember  his  ecstasy  of 
emphasis  and  immensity  of  pause  when  he  de- 
scribed how  he  had  seen  in  a  perambulator  on  the 

Heath  to-day  '  the  most  beaut if  ul  babbie  ever 

beheld  by  mortal  eyes.'  For  babies,  as  some  of  his 
later  volumes  testify,  he  had  a  sort  of  idolatry. 
After  Mazzini  had  followed  Landor  to  Elysium, 
and  Victor  Hugo  had  followed  Mazzini,  babies 
were  what  among  live  creatures  most  evoked 
Swinburne's  genius  for  self-abasement.  His  rap- 
ture about  this  especial  'babbie'  was  such  as  to 
shake  within  me  my  hitherto  firm  conviction  that, 
whereas  the  young  of  the  brute  creation  are  already 
beautiful  at  the  age  of  five  minutes,  the  human 
young  never  begin  to  be  so  before  the  age  of  three 
years.  I  suspect  Watts-Dunton  of  having  shared 
my  lack  of  innate  enthusiasm.  But  it  was  one  of 
Swinburne's  charms,  as  I  was  to  find,  that  he  took 
for  granted  every  one's  delight  in  what  he  himself 
so  fervidly  delighted  in.  He  could  as  soon  have 
imagined  a  man  not  loving  the  very  sea  as  not 
doting  on  the  aspect  of  babies  and  not  reading  at 
least  one  play  by  an  Elizabethan  or  Jacobean 
dramatist  every  day. 


70  AND  EVEN  NOW 

I  forget  whether  it  was  at  this  my  first  meal  or 
at  another  that  he  described  a  storm  in  which, 
one  night  years  ago,  with  Watts-Dunton,  he  had 
crossed  the  Channel.  The  rhythm  of  his  great 
phrases  was  as  the  rhythm  of  those  waves,  and  his 
head  swayed  in  accordance  to  it  like  the  wave- 
rocked  boat  itself.  He  hymned  in  memory  the 
surge  and  darkness,  the  thunder  and  foam  and 
phosphoresence — *You      remember,      Theodore? 

You  remember  the  phos- phorescence.? ' — all  so 

beautifully  and  vividly  that  I  almost  felt  storm- 
bound and  in  peril  of  my  life.  To  disentangle  one 
from  another  of  the  several  occasions  on  which 
I  heard  him  talk  is  difiicult  because  the  procedure 
was  so  invariable :  Watts-Dunton  always  dictating 
when  I  arrived,  Swinburne  always  appearing  at  the 
moment  of  the  meal,  always  the  same  simple  and 
substantial  fare,  Swinburne  never  allowed  to  talk 
before  the  meal  was  half  over.  As  to  this  last 
point,  I  soon  realised  that  I  had  been  quite  unjust 
in  suspecting  Watts-Dunton  of  selfishness.  It  was 
simply  a  sign  of  the  care  with  which  he  watched 
over  his  friend's  welfare.  Had  Swinburne  been 
admitted  earlier  to  the  talk,  he  would  not  have 
taken  his  proper  quantity  of  roast  mutton.  So 
soon,  always,  as  he  had  taken  that,  the  embargo 
was  removed,  the  chance  was  given  him.  And, 
swiftly  though  he  embraced  the  chance,  and  much 
though  he  made  of  it  in  the  courses  of  apple-pie 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  71 

and  of  cheese,  he  seemed  touchingly  ashamed  of 
'holding  forth.'  Often,  before  he  had  said  his 
really  full  say  on  the  theme  suggested  by  Watts- 
Dunton's  loud  interrogation,  he  would  curb  his 
speech  and  try  to  eliminate  himself,  bowing  his 
head  over  his  plate;  and  then,  when  he  had 
promptly  been  brought  in  again,  he  would  always 
try  to  atone  for  his  inhibiting  deafness  by  much 
reference  and  deference  to  all  that  we  might  other- 
wise have  to  say.  'I  hope,'  he  would  coo  to  me, 
*my  friend  Watts-Dunton,  who' — and  here  he 
would  turn  and  make  a  little  bow  to  Watts-Dunton 
— 'is  himself  a  scholar,  will  bear  me  out  when  I 
say' — or  'I  hardly  know,'  he  would  flute  to  his 
old  friend,  'whether  Mr.  Beerbohm' — here  a  bow 
to  me — 'will  agree  with  me  in  my  opinion  of 
some  delicate  point  in  Greek  prosody  or  some 
incident  in  an  old  French  romance  I  had  never 
heard  of. 

On  one  occasion,  just  before  the  removal  of  the 
mutton,  Watts-Dunton  had  been  asking  me  about 
an  English  translation  that  had  been  made  of 
M.  Rostand's  '  Cyrano  de  Bergerac'  He  then  took 
my  information  as  the  match  to  ignite  the  Swin- 
burnian  tinder.  'Well,  Algernon,  it  seems  that 
"Cyrano  de  Bergerac"  ' — but  this  first  spark  was 
enough:  instantly  Swinburne  was  praising  the 
works  of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac.  Of  M.  Rostand  he 
may  have  heard,  but  him  he  forgot.  Indeed  I  never 


72  AND  EVEN  NOW 

heard  Swinburne  mention  a  single  contemporary 
writer.  His  mind  ranged  and  revelled  always  in 
the  illustrious  or  obscure  past.  To  him  the  writings 
of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  were  as  fresh  as  paint — as 
fresh  as  to  me,  alas,  was  the  news  of  their  survival. 
'Of  course,  of  course,  you  have  read  "L'Histoire 
Comique  des  ^tats  et  des  Empires  de  la  Lune"?' 
I  admitted,  by  gesture  and  facial  expression,  that  I 
had  not.  Whereupon  he  reeled  out  curious  extracts 
from  that  allegory — '  almost  as  good  as  "  Gulliver 
— with  a  memorable  instance  of  the  way  in  which 
the  traveller  to  the  moon  was  shocked  by  the 
conversation  of  the  natives,  and  the  natives'  sense 
of  propriety  was  outraged  by  the  conversation  of 
the  traveller. 

In  life,  as  in  (that  for  him  more  truly  actual  thing) 
literature,  it  was  always  the  preterit  that  en- 
thralled him.  Of  any  passing  events,  of  anything 
the  newspapers  were  full  of,  never  a  word  from  him; 
and  I  should  have  been  sorry  if  there  had  been. 
But  I  did,  through  the  medium  of  Watts-Dunton, 
sometimes  start  him  on  topics  that  might  have  led 
him  to  talk  of  Rossetti  and  other  old  comrades. 
For  me  the  names  of  those  men  breathed  the  magic 
of  the  past,  just  as  it  was  breathed  for  me  by  Swin- 
burne's presence.  For  him,  I  suppose,  they  were 
but  a  bit  of  the  present,  and  the  mere  fact  that  they 
had  dropped  out  of  it  was  not  enough  to  hallow 
them.     He  never  mentioned  them.     But  I  was 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  73 

glad  to  see  that  he  revelled  as  wistfully  in  the  days 
just  before  his  own  as  I  in  the  days  just  before  mine. 
He  recounted  to  us  things  he  had  been  told  in  his 
boyhood  by  an  aged  aunt,  or  great-aunt — 'one  of 
the  Ashburnhams ' ;  how,  for  example,  she  had 
been  taken  by  her  mother  to  a  county  ball,  a 
distance  of  many  miles,  and,  on  the  way  home 
through  the  frosty  and  snowy  night,  the  family- 
coach  had  suddenly  stopped:  there  was  a  crowd 
of  dark  figures  in  the  way  ...  at  which  point 
Swinburne  stopped  too,  before  saying,  with  an 
ineffable  smile  and  in  a  voice  faint  with  apprecia- 
tion, 'They  were  burying  a  suicide  at  the  cross- 
roads.' 

Vivid  as  this  Hogarthian  night-scene  was  to  me, 
I  saw  beside  it  another  scene:  a  great  panelled 
room,  a  grim  old  woman  in  a  high-backed  chair, 
and,  restless  on  a  stool  at  her  feet  an  extraordinary 
little  nephew  with  masses  of  auburn  hair  and  with 
tiny  hands  clasped  in  supplication — 'Tell  me  more. 
Aunt  Ashburnham,  tell  me  more!' 

And  now,  clearlier  still,  as  I  write  in  these  after- 
years,  do  I  see  that  dining-room  of  The  Pines; 
the  long  white  stretch  of  table-cloth,  with  Swin- 
burne and  Watts-Dunton  and  another  at  the 
extreme  end  of  it;  Watts-Dunton  between  us, 
very  low  down  over  his  plate,  very  cosy  and  hirsute, 
and  rather  like  the  dormouse  at  that  long  tea- 
table  which  Alice  found  in  Wonderland.     I  see 


74  AND  EVEN  NOW 

myself  sitting  there  wide-eyed,  as  Alice  sat.  And, 
had  the  hare  been  a  great  poet,  and  the  hatter  a 
great  gentleman,  and  neither  of  them  mad  but 
each  only  very  odd  and  vivacious,  I  might  see 
Swinburne  as  a  glorified  blend  of  those  two. 

When  the  meal  ended — for,  alas!  it  was  not 
like  that  meal  in  Wonderland,  unending — Swin- 
burne would  dart  round  the  table,  proffer  his  hand 
to  me,  bow  deeply,  bow  to  Watts-Dunton  also,  and 
disappear.  'He  always  walks  in  the  morning, 
writes  in  the  afternoon,  and  reads  in  the  evening,' 
Watts-Dunton  would  say  with  a  touch  of  tutorial 
pride  in  this  regimen. 

That  parting  bow  of  Swinburne  to  his  old  friend 
was  characteristic  of  his  whole  relation  to  him. 
Cronies  though  they  were,  these  two,  knit  together 
with  bonds  innumerable,  the  greater  man  was 
always  aux  petits  soins  for  the  lesser,  treating  him 
as  a  newly-arrived  young  guest  might  treat  an 
elderly  host.  Some  twenty  years  had  passed  since 
that  night  when,  ailing  and  broken — thought  to  be 
nearly  dying,  Watts-Dunton  told  me — Swinburne 
was  brought  in  a  four-wheeler  to  The  Pines.  Regu- 
lar private  nursing-homes  either  did  not  exist  in 
those  days  or  were  less  in  vogue  than  they  are  now. 
The  Pines  was  to  be  a  sort  of  private  nursing-home 
for  Swinburne.  It  was  a  good  one.  He  recovered. 
He  was  most  grateful  to  his  friend  and  saviour.  He 
made  as  though  to  depart,  was  persuaded  to  stay 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  75 

a  little  longer,  and  then  a  little  longei-  than  that. 
But  I  rather  fancy  that,  to  the  last,  he  never  did, 
in  the  fullness  of  his  modesty  and  good  manners, 
consent  to  regard  his  presence  as  a  matter  of  course, 
or  as  anything  but  a  terminable  intrusion  and 
obligation.  His  bow  seemed  always  to  convey 
that. 

Swinburne  having  gone  from  the  room,  in  would 
come  the  parlourmaid.  The  table  was  cleared, 
the  fire  was  stirred,  two  leather  arm-chairs  were 
pushed  up  to  the  hearth.  Watts-Dunton  wanted 
gossip  of  the  present.  I  wanted  gossip  of  the  great 
past.  We  settled  down  for  a  long,  comfortable 
afternoon  together. 

Only  once  was  the  ritual  varied.  Swinburne 
(I  was  told  before  luncheon)  had  expressed  a  wish 
to  show  me  his  library.  So  after  the  meal  he  did 
not  bid  us  his  usual  adieu,  but  with  much  courtesy 
invited  us  and  led  the  way.  Up  the  staircase  he 
then  literally  bounded — three,  literally  three,  stairs 
at  a  time.  I  began  to  follow  at  the  same  rate,  but 
immediately  slackened  speed  for  fear  that  Watts- 
Dunton  behind  us  might  be  embittered  at  sight 
of  so  much  youth  and  legerity.  Swinburne  waited 
on  the  threshold  to  receive  us,  as  it  were,  and  pass 
us  in.  Watts-Dunton  went  and  ensconced  himself 
snugly  in  a  corner.  The  sun  had  appeared  after  a 
grey  morning,  and  it  pleasantly  flooded  this  big 
living-room  whose  walls  were  entirely  lined  with 


76  AND  EVEN  NOW 

the  mellow  backs  of  books.  Here,  as  host,  among 
his  treasures,  Swinburne  was  more  than  ever 
attractive.  He  was  as  happy  as  was  any  mote 
in  the  sunshine  about  him;  and  the  fluttering  of 
his  little  hands,  and  feet  too,  was  but  as  a  token  of 
so  much  felicity.  He  looked  older,  it  is  true,  in 
the  strong  light.  But  these  added  years  made  only 
more  notable  his  youngness  of  heart.  An  illustrious 
bibliophile  among  his  books?  A  birthday  child, 
rather,  among  his  toys. 

Proudly  he  explained  to  me  the  general  system 
under  which  the  volumes  were  ranged  in  this  or 
that  division  of  shelves.  Then  he  conducted  me  to 
a  chair  near  the  window,  left  me  there,  flew  away, 
flew  up  the  rungs  of  a  mahogany  ladder,  plucked 
a  small  volume,  and  in  a  twinkling  was  at  my  side : 
'This,  I  think,  will  please  you!'  It  did.  It  had 
a  beautifully  engraved  title-page  and  a  pleasing 
scent  of  old,  old  leather.  It  was  editio  princeps  of 
a  play  by  some  lesser  Elizabethan  or  Jacobean. 
'  Of  course  you  know  it.^ '  my  host  fluted. 

How  I  wished  I  could  say  that  I  knew  it  and 
loved  it  well!  I  revealed  to  him  (for  by  speaking 
very  loudly  towards  his  inclined  head  I  was  able  to 
make  him  hear)  that  I  had  not  read  it.  He  envied 
any  one  who  had  such  pleasure  in  store.  He 
darted  to  the  ladder,  and  came  back  thrusting 
gently  into  my  hands  another  volume  of  like  date: 
*  Of  course  you  know  this? ' 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  77 

Again  I  had  to  confess  that  I  did  not,  and  to 
shout  my  appreciation  of  the  fount  of  type,  the 
margins,  the  binding.  He  beamed  agreement,  and 
fetched  another  vohime.  Archly  he  indicated 
the  title,  cooing,  'You  are  a  lover  of  this,  I 
hope?'  And  again  I  was  shamed  by  my  inex- 
perience. 

I  did  not  pretend  to  know  this  particular  play, 
but  my  tone  implied  that  I  had  always  been 
meaning  to  read  it  and  had  always  by  some  mis- 
chance been  prevented.  For  his  sake  as  well  as 
my  own  I  did  want  to  acquit  myself  passably. 
I  wanted  for  him  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  joys 
shared  by  a  representative,  however  humble,  of  the 
common  world.  I  turned  the  leaves  caressingly, 
looking  from  them  to  him,  while  he  dilated  on  the 
beauty  of  this  and  that  scene  in  the  play.  Anon  he 
fetched  another  volume,  and  another,  always  with 
the  same  faith  that  this  was  a  favourite  of  mine. 
I  quibbled,  I  evaded,  I  was  very  enthusiastic  and 
uncomfortable.  It  was  with  intense  relief  that  I 
beheld  the  title-page  of  yet  another  volume  which 
silently,  this  time)  he  laid  before  me — The 
Country  Wench.  *  This  of  course  I  have  read,' 
I  heartily  shouted. 

Swinburne  stepped  back.  'You  have?  You 
have  read  it?  Where?'  he  cried,  in  evident  dis- 
may. 

Something  was  wrong.     Had  I  not,  I  quickly 


78  AND  EVEN  NOW 

wondered,  read  this  play?  'Oh  yes,'  I  shouted, 
'I  have  read  it.' 

'But  when?  Where?'  entreated  Swinburne, 
adding  that  he  had  supposed  it  to  be  the  sole  copy 
extant. 

I  floundered.  I  wildly  said  I  thought  I  must 
have  read  it  years  ago  in  the  Bodleian. 

'Theodore!  Do  you  hear  this?  It  seems  that 
they  have  now  a  copy  of  "The  Country  Wench" 
in  the  Bodleian!  Mr.  Beerbohm  found  one  there 
— oh  when?  in  what  year?'  he  appealed  to  me. 

I  said  it  might  have  been  six,  seven,  eight  years 
ago.  Swinburne  knew  for  certain  that  no  copy 
had  been  there  twelve  years  ago,  and  was  surprised 
that  he  had  not  heard  of  the  accj[uisition.  'They 
might  have  told  me,'  he  wailed. 

I  sacrificed  myself  on  the  altar  of  sympathy.  I 
admitted  that  I  might  have  been  mistaken — must 
have  been — must  have  confused  this  play  with 
some  other.  I  dipped  into  the  pages  and  'No,' 
I  shouted,  'this  I  have  never  read.' 

His  equanimity  was  restored.  He  was  up  the 
ladder  and  down  again,  showing  me  further  treas- 
ures with  all  pride  and  ardour.  At  length,  Watts- 
Dunton,  afraid  that  his  old  friend  would  tire  him- 
self, arose  from  his  corner,  and  presently  he  and  I 
went  downstairs  to  the  dining-room.  It  was  in  the 
course  of  our  session  together  that  there  suddenly 
flashed  across  my  mind  the  existence  of  a  play 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  79 

called  'The  Country  Wife,'  by — wasn't  it  Wycher- 
ley?  I  had  once  read  it — or  read  something  about 
it.  .  .  .  But  this  matter  I  kept  to  myself.  I 
thought  I  had  appeared  fool  enough  already. 

I  loved  those  sessions  in  that  Tupperossettine 
dining-room,  lair  of  solid  old  comfort  and  fervid  old 
romanticism.  Its  odd  duality  befitted  well  its 
owner.  The  distinguished  critic  and  poet,  Ros- 
setti's  closest  friend  and  Swinburne's,  had  been,  for 
a  while,  in  the  dark  ages,  a  solicitor;  and  one  felt  he 
had  been  a  good  one.  His  frock-coat,  though  the 
Muses  had  crumpled  it,  inspired  confidence  in  his 
judgment  of  other  things  than  verse.  But  let  there 
be  no  mistake.  He  was  no  mere  bourgeois  parnas- 
sien,  as  his  enemies  insinuated.  No  doubt  he  had 
been  very  useful  to  men  of  genius,  in  virtue  of 
qualities  they  lacked,  but  the  secret  of  his  hold 
on  them  was  in  his  own  rich  nature.  He  was  not 
only  a  born  man  of  letters,  he  was  a  deeply  emo- 
tional human  being  whose  appeal  was  as  much  to 
the  heart  as  to  the  head.  The  romantic  Celtic 
mysticism  of  '  Aylwin,'  with  its  lack  of  fashionable 
Celtic  nebulosity,  lends  itself,  if  you  will,  to  laugh- 
ter, though  personally  I  saw  nothing  funny  in  it: 
it  seemed  to  me,  before  I  was  in  touch  with  the 
author,  a  work  of  genuine  expression  from  within; 
and  that  it  truly  was  so  I  presently  knew.  The 
m.ysticism  of  Watts-Dunton  (who,  once  comfort- 
ably settled  at  the  fireside,  knew  no  reserve)  was  in 


80  AND  EVEN  NOW 

contrast  with  the  frock-coat  and  the  practical 
abilities;  but  it  was  essential,  and  they  were  of  the 
surface.  For  humorous  Rossetti,  I  daresay,  the 
very  contrast  made  Theodore's  company  the  more 
precious.  He  himself  had  assuredly  been,  and  the 
memory  of  him  still  was,  the  master-fact  in  Watts- 
Dunton's  life.  'Algernon'  was  as  an  adopted 
child,  '  Gabriel '  as  a  long-lost  only  brother.  As  he 
was  to  the  outer  world  of  his  own  day,  so  too  to 
posterity  Rossetti,  the  man,  is  conjectural  and 
mysterious.  We  know  that  he  was  in  his  prime 
the  most  inspiring  and  splendid  of  companions. 
But  we  know  this  only  by  faith.  The  evidence  is 
as  vague  as  it  is  emphatic.  Of  the  style  and 
substance  of  not  a  few  great  talkers  in  the  past 
we  can  piece  together  some  more  or  less  vivid  and 
probably  erroneous  notion.  But  about  Rossetti 
nothing  has  been  recorded  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
him  even  faintly  emerge.  I  suppose  he  had  in 
him  what  reviewers  seem  to  find  so  often  in  books : 
a  quality  that  defies  analysis.  Listening  to  Watts- 
Dunton,  I  was  always  in  hope  that  when  next  the 
long-lost  turned  up — for  he  was  continually  doing 
so — in  the  talk,  I  should  see  him,  hear  him,  and 
share  the  rapture.  But  the  revelation  was  not  to  be. 
You  might  think  that  to  hear  him  called  '  Gabriel ' 
would  have  given  me  a  sense  of  propinquity. 
But  I  felt  no  nearer  to  him  than  you  feel  to  the 
Archangel  who  bears  the  name  and  no  surname. 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  81 

It  was  always  when  Watts-Dimton  spoke  care-' 
lessly,  casually,  of  some  to  me  illustrious  figure  in 
the  past,  that  I  had  the  sense  of  being  wafted 
right  into  that  past  and  plumped  down  in  the  very 
midst  of  it.  When  he  spoke  with  reverence  of 
this  and  that  great  man  whom  he  had  known,  he 
did  not  thus  waft  and  plump  me;  for  I,  too,  revered 
those  names.  But  I  had  the  magical  transition 
whenever  one  of  the  immortals  was  mentioned 
in  the  tone  of  those  who  knew  him  before  he  had 
put  on  immortality.  Browning,  for  example,  was  a 
name  deeply  honoured  by  me.  'Browning,  yes,' 
said  Watts-Dunton,  in  the  course  of  an  afternoon, 
*  Browning,'  and  he  took  a  sip  of  the  steaming 
whisky-toddy  that  was  a  point  in  our  day's  ritual. 
*I  was  a  great  diner-out  in  the  old  times.  I  used 
to  dine  out  every  night  in  the  week.  Browning  was 
a  great  diner-out,  too.  We  were  always  meeting. 
What  a  pity  he  went  on  writing  all  those  plays! 
He  hadn't  any  gift  for  drama — none.  I  never  could 
understand  why  he  took  to  play-writing.'  He 
wagged  his  head,  gazing  regretfully  into  the  fire, 
and  added,  '  Such  a  clever  fellow,  too ! ' 

Whistler,  though  alive  and  about,  was  already 
looked  to  as  a  hierarch  by  the  young.  Not  so  had 
he  been  looked  to  by  Rossetti.  The  thrill  of  the 
past  was  always  strong  in  me  when  Watts-Dunton 
mentioned — seldom  without  a  guffaw  did  he 
mention — 'Jimmy  Whistler.'     I  think  he  put  in 


82  AND  EVEN  NOW 

the  surname  because  '  that  fellow '  had  not  behaved 
well  to  Swinburne.  But  he  could  not  omit  the 
nickname,  because  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
feel  the  right  measure  of  resentment  against  'such 
a  funny  fellow.'  As  heart-full  of  old  hates  as  of 
old  loves  was  Watts-Dunton,  and  I  take  it  as  high 
testimony  to  the  charm  of  Whistler's  quaintness 
that  Watts-Dunton  did  not  hate  him.  You  may  be 
aware  that  Swinburne,  in  '88,  wrote  for  one  of  the 
monthly  reviews  a  criticism  of  the  'Ten  O'Clock' 
lecture.  He  paid  courtly  compliments  to  Whistler 
as  a  painter,  but  joined  issue  with  his  theories. 
Straightway  there  appeared  in  the  World  a  little 
letter  from  Whistler,  deriding  'one  Algernon 
Swinburne — outsider — Putney.'  It  was  not  in  it- 
self a  very  pretty  or  amusing  letter;  and  still  less 
so  did  it  seem  in  the  light  of  the  facts  which  Watts- 
Dunton  told  me  in  some  such  words  as  these: 
'After  he'd  published  that  lecture  of  his,  Jimmy 
Whistler  had  me  to  dine  with  him  at  Kettner's  or 
somewhere.  He  said  "Now,  Theodore,  I  want 
you  to  do  me  a  favour."  He  wanted  to  get  me  to 
get  Swinburne  to  write  an  article  about  his  lecture. 
I  said  "No,  Jimmy  Whistler,  I  can't  ask  Algernon 
to  do  that.  He's  got  a  great  deal  of  work  on 
hand  just  now — a  great  deal  of  work.  And  be- 
sides, this  sort  of  thing  wouldn't  be  at  all  in  his 
line.'  But  Jimmy  Whistler  went  on  appealing  to 
me.     He  said  it  would  do  him  no  end  of  good  if 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  86 

Swinburne  wrote  about  him.  And — well,  I  half 
gave  in :  I  said  perhaps  I  would  mention  the  matter 
to  Algernon.  And  next  day  I  did.  I  could  see 
Algernon  didn't  want  to  do  it  at  all.  But — well, 
there,  he  said  he'd  do  it  to  please  me.  And  he  did 
it.  And  then  Jimmy  Whistler  published  that 
letter.  A  very  shabby  trick — very  shabby  indeed.' 
Of  course  I  do  not  vouch  for  the  exact  words  in 
which  Watts-Dunton  told  me  this  tale;  but  this 
was  exactly  the  tale  he  told  me.  I  expressed  my 
astonishment.  He  added  that  of  course  he  'never 
wanted  to  see  the  fellow  again  after  that,  and  never 
did.'  But  presently,  after  a  long  gaze  into  the 
coals,  he  emitted  a  chuckle,  as  for  earlier  memories 
of  '  such  a  funny  fellow.'  One  quite  recent  memory 
he  had,  too.  *  When  I  took  on  the  name  of  Dunton, 
I  had  a  note  from  him.  Just  this,  with  his  butterfly 
signature:  Theodore!  What's  Duntonf  That  was 
very  good — very  good.  .  .  .  But,  of  course,'  he 
added  gravely,  'I  took  no  notice.'  And  no  doubt, 
quite  apart  from  the  difficulty  of  finding  an  answer 
in  the  same  vein,  he  did  well  in  not  replying. 
Loyalty  to  Swinburne  forbade.  But  I  see  a  certain 
pathos  in  the  unanswered  message.  It  was  a 
message  from  the  hand  of  an  old  jester,  but  also, 
I  think,  from  the  heart  of  an  old  man — a  signal 
waved  jauntily,  but  in  truth  wistfully,  across  the 
gulf  of  years  and  estrangement;  and  one  could 
wish  it  had  not  be^i  ignored. 


84  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Some  time  after  Whistler  died  I  wrote  for  one  of 
the  magazines  an  appreciation  of  his  curious  skill 
in  the  art  of  writing.  Watts-Dunton  told  me  he 
had  heard  of  this  from  Swinburne.  *I  myself/ 
he  said,  'very  seldom  read  the  magazines.  But 
Algernon  always  has  a  look  at  them.'  There  was 
something  to  me  very  droll,  and  cheery  too,  in 
this  picture  of  the  illustrious  recluse  snatching  at 
the  current  issues  of  our  twaddle.  And  I  was 
immensely  pleased  at  hearing  that  my  article  had 
interested  him  very  much.'  I  inwardly  promised 
myself  that  as  soon  as  I  reached  home  I  would  read 
the  article,  to  see  just  how  it  might  have  struck 
Swinburne.  When  in  due  course  I  did  this,  I 
regretted  the  tone  of  the  opening  sentences,  in 
which  I  declared  myself  'no  book-lover'  and 
avowed  a  preference  for  'an  uninterrupted  view 
of  my  fellow-creatures.'  I  felt  that  had  I  known 
my  article  would  meet  the  eye  of  Swinburne  I 
should  have  cut  out  that  overture.  I  dimly 
remembered  a  fine  passage  in  one  of  his  books  of 
criticism — something  (I  preferred  not  to  verify  it) 
about  'the  dotage  of  duncedom  which  cannot 
perceive,  or  the  impudence  of  insignificance  so 
presumptuous  as  to  doubt,  that  the  elements  of 
life  and  literature  are  indi visibly  mingled  one  in 
another,  and  that  he  to  whom  books  are  less  real 
than  life  will  assuredly  find  in  men  and  women 
as  little  reality  as  in  his  accursed  crassness  he 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  85 

deserves  to  discover.'  I  quailed,  I  quailed.  But 
mine  is  a  resilient  nature,  and  I  promptly  reminded 
myself  that  Swinburne's  was  a  very  impersonal 
one:  he  would  not  think  the  less  highly  of  me,  for 
he  never  had  thought  about  me  in  any  way  whatso- 
ever. All  was  well.  I  knew  I  could  revisit  The 
Pines,  when  next  Watts-Dunton  should  invite  me, 
without  misgiving.  And  to  this  day  I  am  rather 
proud  of  having  been  mentioned,  though  not  by 
name,  and  not  consciously,  and  unfavourably,  by 
Swinburne.  ~ 

I  wonder  that  I  cannot  recall  more  than  I  do 
recall  of  those  hours  at  The  Pines.  It  is  odd  how 
little  remains  to  a  man  of  his  own  past — how  few 
minutes  of  even  his  memorable  hours  are  not 
clean  forgotten,  and  how  few  seconds  in  any 
one  of  those  minutes  can  be  recaptured.  .  .  I 
am  middle-aged,  and  have  lived  a  vast  number 
of  seconds.  Subtract  §  of  these,  for  one  mustn't 
count  sleep  as  life.  The  residual  number  is  still 
enormous.  Not  a  single  one  of  those  seconds  was 
unimportant  to  me  in  its  passage.  Many  of  them 
bored  me,  of  course;  but  even  boredom  is  a  positive 
state:  one  chafes  at  it  and  hates  it;  strange  that 
one  should  afterwards  forget  it!  And  stranger  still 
that  of  one's  actual  happinesses  and  unhappinesses 
so  tiny  and  tattered  a  remnant  clings  about  one! 
Of  those  hours  at  The  Pines,  of  that  past  within  a 
past,  there  was  not  a  minute  nor  a  second  that  I  did 


f 


86  AND  EVEN  NOW 

not  spend  with  pleasure.  Memory  Is  a  great  artist, 
we  are  told;  she  selects  and  rejects  and  shapes 
and  so  on.  No  doubt.  Elderly  persons  would  be 
utterly  intolerable  if  they  remembered  everything. 
Everything,  nevertheless,  is  just  what  they  them- 
selves would  like  to  remember,  and  just  what  they 
would  like  to  tell  to  everybody.  Be  sure  that  the 
Ancient  Mariner,  though  he  remembered  quite  as 
much  as  his  audience  wanted  to  hear,  and  rather 
more,  about  the  albatross  and  the  ghastly  crew, 
was  inwardly  raging  at  the  sketchiness  of  his  own 
mind;  and  believe  me  that  his  stopping  only  one 
of  three  was  the  merest  oversight.  I  should  like 
to  impose  on  the  world  many  tomes  about  The 
Pines. 

But,  scant  though  my  memories  are  of  the 
moments  there,  very  full  and  warm  in  me  is  the 
whole  fused  memory  of  the  two  dear  old  men  that 
lived  there.  I  wish  I  had  Watts-Dunton's  sure 
faith  in  meetings  beyond  the  grave.  I  am  glad  I 
do  not  disbelieve  that  people  may  so  meet.  I  like 
to  think  that  some  day  in  Elysium  I  shall — not 
without  diffidence — approach  those  two  and  re- 
introduce myself.  I  can  see  just  how  courteously 
Swinburne  will  bow  over  my  hand,  not  at  all 
remembering  who  I  am.'^  Watts-Dunton  will  re- 
member me  after  a  moment:  'Oh,  to  be  sure, 
yes  indeed !  I've  a  great  deal  of  work  on  hand  just 
now — a  great  deal  of  work,  but '  we  shall  sit  down 


NO.  2.  THE  PINES  87 

together  on  the  asphodel,  and  I  cannot  but  think 
we  shall  have  whisky-toddy  even  there.  He  will 
not  have  changed.  He  will  still  be  shaggy  and  old 
and  chubby,  and  will  wear  the  same  frock-coat, 
with  the  same  creases  in  it.  Swinburne,  on  the 
other  hand,  will  be  quite,  quite  young,  with  a  full 
mane  of  flaming  auburn  locks,  and  no  clothes  to 
hinder  him  from  plunging  back  at  any  moment 
into  the  shining  Elysian  waters  from  which  he  will 
have  just  emerged.  I  see  him  skim  lightly  away 
into  that  element.  On  the  strand  is  sitting  a  man 
of  noble  and  furrowed  brow.  It  is  Mazzini,  still 
thinking  of  Liberty.  And  anon  the  tiny  young 
English  amphibian  comes  ashore  to  fling  himself 
dripping  at  the  feet  of  the  patriot  and  to  carol  the 
Republican  ode  he  has  composed  in  the  course  of 
his  swim.  'He's  wonderfully  active — active  in 
mind  and  body,'  Watts-Dunton  says  to  me,  'I 
come  to  the  shore  now  and  then,  just  to  see  how 
he's  getting  on.  But  I  spend  most  of  my  time 
inland.  I  find  I've  so  much  to  talk  over  with 
Gabriel.  Not  that  he's  quite  the  fellow  he  was. 
He  always  had  rather  a  cult  for  Dante,  you  know, 
and  now  he's  more  than  ever  under  the  Florentine 
influence.  He  lives  in  a  sort  of  monastery  that 
Dante  has  here;  and  there  he  sits  painting  imagin- 
ary portraits  of  Beatrice,  and  giving  them  all  to 
Dante.  But  he  still  has  his  great  moments,  and 
there's  no  one  quite  like  him — no  one.     Algernon 


88  AND  EVEN  NOW 

won't  ever  come  and  see  him,  because  that  fellow 
Mazzini's  as  Anti-Clerical  as  ever  and  makes  a 
principle  of  having  nothing  to  do  with  Dante. 
Look! — there's  Algernon  going  into  the  water 
again!  He'll  tire  himself  out,  he'll  catch  cold, 
he'll — '  and  here  the  old  man  rises  and  hurries 
down  to  the  sea's  edge.  'Now,  Algernon,'  he 
roars,  'I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  you,  but  I 
do  think,  my  dear  old  friend,' — and  then,  with  a 
guffaw,  he  breaks  off,  remembering  that  his  friend 
is  not  deaf  now  nor  old,  and  that  here  in  Elysium, 
where  no  ills  are,  good  advice  is  not  needed. 


A    LETTER    THAT    WAS    NOT 
WRITTEN 


A    LETTER    THAT    WAS    NOT 

WRITTEN 

J914. 

ONE  morning  lately  I  saw  in  my  newspaper 
an  announcement  that  enraged  me.  It 
was  made  in  the  driest,  most  casual  way, 
as  though  nobody  would  care  a  rap;  and  this  did 
but  whet  the  wrath  I  had  in  knowing  that  Adam 
Street,  Adelphi,  was  to  be  undone.  The  Tivoli 
Music  Hall,  about  to  be  demolished  and  built  anew, 
was  to  have  a  frontage  of  thirty  feet,  if  you  please, 
in  Adam  Street.  Why.f*  Because  the  London 
County  Council,  with  its  fixed  idea  that  the  happi- 
ness of  mankind  depends  on  the  widening  of  the 
Strand,  had  decreed  that  the  Tivoli's  new  frontage 
thereon  should  be  thirty  feet  further  back,  and  had 
granted  as  consolation  to  the  Tivoli  the  right  to 
spread  itself  around  the  corner  and  wreck  the  work 
of  the  Brothers  Adam.  Could  not  this  outrage  be 
averted?  There  sprang  from  my  lips  that  fiery 
formula  which  has  sprung  from  the  lips  of  so  many 
choleric  old  gentlemen  in  the  course  of  the  past 
hundred  years  and  more:  *I  shall  write  to  The 
Times* 

91 


92  AND  EVEN  NOW 

If  Adam  Street  were  a  thing  apart  I  should  have 
been  stricken  enough,  heaven  knows,  at  thought  of 
its  beauty  going,  its  dear  tradition  being  lost.  But 
not  as  an  unrelated  masterpiece  was  Adam  Street 
built  by  the  Brothers  whose  name  it  bears.  An 
integral  part  it  is  in  their  noble  design  of  the 
Adelphi.  It  is  the  very  key  to  the  Adelphi,  the 
well-ordained  initiation  for  us  into  that  small, 
matchless  quarter  of  London,  where  peace  and  dig- 
nity do  still  reign — peace  the  more  beatific,  and 
dignity  the  finer,  by  instant  contrast  with  the 
chaos  of  hideous  sounds  and  sights  hard  by.  What 
man  so  gross  that,  passing  out  of  the  Strand  into 
Adam  Street,  down  the  mild  slope  to  the  river,  he 
has  not  cursed  the  age  he  was  born  into — or  blessed 
it  because  the  Adelphi  cannot  in  earlier  days  have 
had  for  any  one  this  fullness  of  peculiar  magic? 
Adam  Street  is  not  so  beautiful  as  the  serene  Ter- 
race it  goes  down  to,  nor  so  curiously  grand  as 
crook-backed  John  Street.  But  the  Brothers  did  not 
mean  it  to  be  so.  They  meant  it  just  as  an  harmo- 
nious '  lead '  to  those  inner  glories  of  their  scheme. 
Ruin  that  approach,  and  how  much  else  do  you  ruin 
of  a  thing  which — done  perfectly  by  masters,  and 
done  by  them  here  as  nowhere  else  could  they  have 
done  it — ought  to  be  guarded  by  us  very  jealously! 
How  to  raise  on  this  irregular  and  'barbarous' 
ground  a  quarter  that  should  be  'polite,'  con- 
gruous in  tone  with  the  smooth  river  beyond  it — 


A  LETTER  THAT  WAS  NOT  WRITTEN  93 

this  was  the  irresistible  problem  the  Brothers  set 
themselves  and  slowly,  coolly,  perfectly  solved.  So 
long  as  the  Adelphi  remains  to  us,  a  microcosm  of 
the  eighteenth  century  is  ours.     If  there  is  any 

meaning  in  the  word  sacrilege 

That,  I  remember,  was  the  beginning  of  one  of 
the  sentences  I  composed  while  I  paced  my  room, 
thinking  out  my  letter  to  The  Times.  I  rejected 
that  sentence.  I  rejected  scores  of  others.  They 
were  all  too  vehement.  Though  my  facility  for 
indignation  is  not  (I  hope)  less  than  that  of  my 
fellows,  I  never  had  written  to  The  Times.  And 
now,  though  I  flattered  myself  I  knew  how  the 
thing  ought  to  be  done,  I  was  unsure  that  I  could 
do  it.  Was  I  beginning  too  late.f^  Restraint  was 
the  prime  effect  to  be  aimed  at.  If  you  are  in- 
temperate, you  don't  convince.  I  wanted  to  con- 
vince the  readers  of  The  Times  that  the  violation 
of  the  Adelphi  was  a  thing  to  be  prevented  at  all 
costs.  Soberness  of  statement,  a  simple,  direct, 
civic  style,  with  only  an  underthrob  of  personal 
emotion,  were  what  I  must  at  all  costs  achieve. 
Not  too  much  of  mere  aesthetics,  either,  nor  of 
mere  sentiment  for  the  past.  No  more  than  a  brief 
eulogy  of  '  those  admirably  proportioned  streets  so 
familiar  to  all  students  of  eighteenth  century  archi- 
tecture,' and  perhaps  a  passing  reference  to  'the 
shades  of  Dr.  Johnson,  Garrick,  Hannah  More,  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  Topham  Beauclerk,   and   how 


94  AND  EVEN  NOW 

many  others!'  The  sooner  my  protest  were  put 
in  terms  of  commerce,  the  better  for  my  cause, 
The  more  clearly  I  were  to  point  out  that  such 
antiquities  as  the  Adelphi  are  as  a  magnet  to  the 
moneyed  tourists  of  America  and  Europe,  the  like- 
lier would  my  readers  be  to  shudder  at '  a  proposal 
which,  if  carried  into  effect,  will  bring  discredit  on 
all  concerned  and  will  in  some  measure  justify 
Napoleon's  hitherto-unjustified  taunt  that  we  are 
a  nation  of  shopkeepers. — I  am.  Sir,  your  obedient 
servant' — good!  I  sat  down  to  a  table  and  wrote 
out  that  conclusion,  and  then  I  worked  backwards, 
keeping  well  in  view  the  idea  of  'restraint.'  But 
that  quality  which  is  little  sister  to  restraint,  and 
is  yet  far  more  repulsive  to  the  public  mind  than 
vehemence,  emerged  to  misguide  my  pen.  Irony, 
in"fact,  played  the  deuce.  I  found  myself  writing 
that  'a  nation  which,  in  its  ardour  for  beauty  and 
its  reverence  for  great  historic  associations,  has 
lately  disbursed  after  only  a  few  months'  hesitation 
£250,000  to  save  the  Crystal  Palace,  where  the 
bank  holidays  of  millions  of  toilers  have  been  spoilt 
by  the  utter  gloom  and  nullity  of  the  place — a 
nullity  and  gloom  that  will,  however  and  of  course, 
be  dispelled  so  soon  as  the  place  is  devoted  to 
permanent  exhibitions  of  New  Zealand  pippins, 
Rhodesian  tobacco,  Australian  mutton,  Canadian 
'  snow-shoes,  and  other  glories  of  Empire — might 
surely  not  be  asked  in  vain  to' — but  I  deleted  that 


A  LETTER  THAT  WAS  NOT  WRITTEN   95 

sentence,  and  tried  another  in  another  vein.  My 
desire  to  be  straightforward  did  but  topple  me 
into  excess  of  statement.  My  sorrow  for  the 
Adelphi  came  out  as  sentimentahty,  my  anger 
against  the  authorities  as  vulgar  abuse.  Only  the 
urgency  of  my  cause  upheld  me.  I  loould  get  my 
letter  done  somehow  and  post  it.  But  there  flitted 
through  my  mind  that  horrid  doubt  which  has 
flitted  through  the  minds  of  so  many  choleric  old 
gentlemen  in  the  course  of  the  past  hundred  years 
and  more:  'Will  The  Times  put  my  letter  in?' 

If  The  Times  wouldn't,  what  then.^^  At  least 
my  conscience  would  be  clear:  I  should  have  done 
what  I  could  to  save  my  beloved  quarter.  But  the 
process  of  doing  it  was  hard  and  tedious,  and  I  was 
glad  of  the  little  respite  presented  by  the  thought 
that  I  must,  before  stating  my  case  thoroughly, 
revisit  Adam  Street  itself,  to  gauge  precisely  the 
extent  of  the  mischief  threatened  there.  On  my 
way  to  the  Strand  I  met  an  old  friend,  one  of  my 
links  with  whom  is  his  love  of  the  Adams'  work. 
He  had  not  read  the  news,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say 
that  I,  in  my  selfish  agitation,  did  not  break  it  to 
him  gently.  Rallying,  he  accompanied  me  on  my 
sombre  quest. 

I  had  forgotten  there  was  a  hosier's  shop  next  to 
the  Tivoli,  at  the  corner  of  the  right-hand  side  of 
Adam  Street.  We  turned  past  it,  and  were  both 
of  us  rather  surprised  that  there  were  other  shops 


96  AND  EVEN  NOW 

down  that  side.  They  ought  never  to  have  been 
allowed  there;  but  there  they  were;  and  of  course, 
I  felt,  it  was  the  old  f agades  above  them  that  really 
counted.  We  gazed  meanwhile  at  the  fagades  on 
the  left-hand  side,  feasting  our  eyes  on  the  propor- 
tions of  the  pilasters,  the  windows;  the  old  seemly 
elegance  of  it  all;  the  greatness  of  the  manner 
with  the  sweet  smallness  of  the  scale  it  wrought 
on. 

*Well,'  I  said,  turning  abruptly  away,  'to  busi- 
ness! Thirty  feet — how  much,  about,  is  that?' 
My  friend  moved  to  the  exact  corner  of  the  Strand, 
and  then,  steadily,  methodically,  with  his  eyes  to 
the  pavement,  walked  thirty  toe-to-heel  paces 
down  Adam  Street. 

*This,'  he  said,  *is  where  the  corner  of  the 
Tivoli  would  come' — not  'will  come,'  observe;  I 
thanked  him  for  that.  He  passed  on,  measuring 
out  the  thirty  additional  feet.  There  was  in  his 
demeanour  something  so  finely  official  that  I  felt 
I  should  at  least  have  the  Government  on  my  side. 

Thus  it  was  with  no  sense  of  taking  a  farewell 
look,  but  rather  to  survey  a  thing  half-saved 
already,  that  I  crossed  over  to  the  other  side  of  the 
road,  and  then,  lifting  my  eyes,  and  looking  to  and 
fro,  beheld — what? 

I  blankly  indicated  the  thing  to  my  friend.  How 
long  had  it  been  there,  that  horrible,  long,  high 
frontage  of  grey  stone?     It  must  surely  have  been 


A  LETTER  THAT  WAS  NOT  WRITTEN  97 

there  before  either  of  us  was  born.  It  seemed  to 
be  a  very  perfect  specimen  of  1860-1870  architec- 
ture— perfect  in  its  pretentious  and  hateful  smug- 
ness. 

And  neither  of  us  had  ever  known  it  was  there. 

Neither  of  us,  therefore,  could  afford  to  laugh  at 
the  other;  nor  did  either  of  us  laugh  at  himself; 
we  just  went  blankly  away,  and  parted.  I  daresay 
my  friend  found  presently,  as  I  did,  balm  in  the 
knowledge  that  the  Tivoli's  frontage  wouldn't, 
because  it  couldn't,  be  so  bad  as  that  which  we 
had  just,  for  the  first  time,  seen. 

For  me  there  was  another,  a  yet  stronger,  balm. 
And  I  went  as  though  I  trod  on  air,  my  heart 
singing  within  me.  For  I  had  not,  after  all,  to 
resume  my  task  of  writing  that  letter  to  The 
Times. 


BOOKS  WITHIN  BOOKS 


BOOKS  WITHIN  BOOKS 

1914.    , 

THEY  must,  I  suppose,  be  classed  among 
y8i/3Ata  a/SifiXta.  Ignored  in  the  catalogue  of 
any  library,  not  one  of  them  lurking  in  any 
uttermost  cavern  under  the  reading-room  of  the 
British  Museum,  none  of  them  ever  printed  even 
for  private  circulation,  these  books  written  by 
this  and  that  character  in  fiction  are  books  only 
by  courtesy  and  good  will. 

But  how  few,  after  all,  the  books  that  are  books ! 
Charles  Lamb  let  his  kind  heart  master  him  when 
he  made  that  too  brief  list  of  books  that  aren't. 
Book  is  an  honourable  title,  not  to  be  conferred 
lightly.  A  volume  is  not  necessarily,  as  Lamb 
would  have  had  us  think,  a  book  because  it  can  be 
read  without  difficulty.  The  test  is,  whether 
it  was  worth  reading.  Had  the  author  something 
to  set  forth?  And  had  he  the  specific  gift  for 
setting  it  forth  in  written  words. ^^  And  did  he  use 
this  rather  rare  gift  conscientiously  and  to  the  full? 
And  were  his  words  well  and  appropriately  printed 
and  bound?  If  you  can  say  Yes  to  these  questions, 
then  only,  I  submit,  is  the  title  of  'book'  deserved. 

101 


LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


102  AND  EVEN  NOW 

If  Lamb  were  alive  now,  he  certainly  would  draw 
the  line  closer  than  he  did.  Published  volumes 
were  few  in  his  day  (though  not,  of  course,  few 
enough).  Even  he,  in  all  the  plenitude  of  his 
indulgence,  would  now  have  to  demur  that  at 
least  90  per  cent,  of  the  volumes  that  the  publishers 
thrust  on  us,  so  hectically,  every  spring  and 
autumn,  are  dySt^Xta.  i» 

What  would  he  have  to  say  of  the  novels,  for 
example?  These  commodities  are  all  very  well 
in  their  way,  no  doubt.  But  let  us  have  no  illu- 
sions as  to  what  their  way  is.  The  poulterer  who 
sells  strings  of  sausages  does  not  pretend  that  every 
individual  sausage  is  in  itself  remarkable.  He  does 
not  assure  us  that  'this  is  a  sausage  that  gives 
furiously  to  think,'  or  'this  is  a  singularly  beautiful 
and  human  sausage,'  or  'this  is  undoubtedly  the 
sausage  of  the  year.'  Why  are  such  distinctions 
drawn  by  the  publisher.^  When  he  publishes,  as 
he  sometimes  does,  a  novel  that  is  a  book  (or  at 
any  rate  would  be  a  book  if  it  were  decently  printed 
and  bound)  then  by  all  means  let  him  proclaim 
its  difference — even  at  the  risk  of  scaring  away 
the  majority  of  readers. 

I  admit  that  I  myself  might  be  found  in  that 
majority.  I  am  shy  of  masterpieces;  nor  is 
this  merely  because  of  the  many  times  I  have 
been  disappointed  at  not  finding  anything  at 
all  like  what  the  publishers  expected  me  to  find. 


BOOKS  WITHIN  BOOKS  103 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  those  disappointments  are 
dim  in  my  memory:  it  is  long  since  I  ceased  to 
take  publishers'  opinions  as  my  guide.  I  trust  now, 
for  what  I  ought  to  read,  to  the  advice  of  a  few 
highly  literary  friends.  But  so  soon  as  I  am  told 
that  I  'must'  read  this  or  that,  and  have  replied 
that  I  instantly  will,  I  become  strangely  loth  to 
do  anything  of  the  sort.  And  what  I  like  about 
books  within  books  is  that  they  never  can  prick  my 
conscience.  It  is  extraordinarily  comfortable  that 
they  don't  exist. 

And  yet — for,  even  as  Must  implants  distaste,  so 
does  Can't  stir  sweet  longings — how  eagerly  would 
I  devour  these  books  within  books!  What  fun, 
what  a  queer  emotion,  to  fish  out  from  a  fourpenny- 
box,  in  a  windy  by-street,  Walter  Lorraine,  by 
Arthur  Pendennis,  or  Passion  Flowers,  by 
Rosa  Bunion!  I  suppose  poor  Rosa's  muse,  so 
fair  and  so  fervid  in  Rosa's  day,  would  seem  a 
trifle  fatigued  now;  but  what  allowances  one  would 
make!  Lord  Steyne  said  of  Walter  Lorraine 
that  it  was  'very  clever  and  wicked.'  I  fancy  we 
should  apply  neither  epithet  now.  Indeed,  I 
have  always  suspected  that  Pen's  maiden  effort 
may  have  been  on  a  plane  with  'The  Great  Hog- 
garty  Diamond.'  ,.  Yet  I  vow  would  I  not  skip  a 
line  of  it. 

Who  Put  Back  the  Clock?  is  another  work 
which  I  especially  covet.     Poor  Gideon  Forsyth! 


104  AND  EVEN  NOW 

He  was  abominably  treated,  as  Stevenson  relates, 
in  the  matter  of  that  grand  but  grisly  piano;  and 
I  have  always  hoped  that  perhaps,  in  the  end,  as 
a  sort  of  recompense,  Fate  ordained  that  the 
novel  he  had  anonymously  written  should  be 
rescued  from  oblivion  and  found  by  discerning 
critics  to  be  not  at  all  bad. 

He  had  never  acknowledged  it,  or  only  to  some  Intimate 
friends  while  It  was  still  In  proof;  after  its  appearance  and  alarm- 
ing failure,  the  modesty  of  the  author  had  become  more  pressing, 
and  the  secret  was  now  likely  to  be  better  kept  than  that  of  the 
authorship  of  'Waverley,' 

Such  an  humiliation  as  Gideon's  is  the  more 
poignant  to  me  because  it  is  so  rare  in  English 
fiction.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  a  book  within  a 
book  is  an  immediate,  an  immense  success. 

On  the  whole,  our  novelists  have  always  tended 
to  optimism — especially  they  who  have  written 
mainly  to  please  their  public.  It  pleases  the  public 
to  read  about  any  sort  of  success.  The  greater, 
the  more  sudden  and  violent  the  success,  the 
more  valuable  is  it  as  ingredient  in  a  novel.  And, 
since  the  average  novelist  lives  always  in  a  dream 
that  one  of  his  works  will  somehow  *  catch  on' 
as  no  other  work  ever  has  caught  on  yet,  it  is  very 
natural  that  he  should  fondly  try  meanwhile  to 
get  this  dream  realised  for  him,  vicariously,  by  this 
or  that  creature  of  his  fancy.     True,  he  is  usually 


BOOKS  WITHIN  BOOKS  105 

too  self-conscious  to  let  this  creature  achieve  his 
sudden  fame  and  endless  fortune  through  a  novel. 
Usually  it  is  a  play  that  does  the  trick.  In  the 
Victorian  time  it  was  almost  always  a  book  of 
poems.  Oh  for  the  spacious  days  of  Tennyson 
and  Swinburne!  In  how  many  a  three-volume 
novel  is  mentioned  some '  slim  octavo '  which  seems, 
from  the  account  given,  to  have  been  as  arresting 
as  'Poems  and  Ballads'  without  being  less  ac- 
ceptable than  '  Idylls  of  the  King ' !  These  verses 
were  always  the  anonymous  work  of  some  very 
young,  very  poor  man,  who  supposed  they  had 
fallen  still-born  from  the  press  until  one  day, 
a  week  or  so  after  publication,  as  he  walked 
'moodily'  and  'in  a  brown  study'  along  the 
Strand,  having  given  up  all  hope  now  that  he 
would  ever  be  in  a  position  to  ask  Hilda  to  be  his 
wife,  a  friend  accosted  him — 'Seen  "The  Thun- 
derer" this  morning?  By  George,  there's  a 
column  review  of  a  new  book  of  poems,'  etc.  In 
some  three-volume  novel  that  I  once  read  at  a 
seaside  place,  having  borrowed  it  from  the  little 
circulating  library,  there  was  a  young  poet  whose 
sudden  leap  into  the  front  rank  has  always  laid 
a  special  hold  on  my  imagination.  The  name  of 
the  novel  itself  I  cannot  recall;  but  I  remember 
the  name  of  the  young  poet — Aylmer  Deane; 
and  the  forever  unforgettable  title  of  his  book  of 
verse  was  Foments:  Being  Poems  of  the  Mood 


106  AND  EVEN  NOW 

AND  THE  Moment.     What  would  I  not  give  to 
possess  a  copy  of  that  work? 

Though  he  had  suffered,  and  though  suffering 
is  a  soverign  preparation  for  great  work,  I  did 
not  at  the  onset  foresee  that  Aylmer  Deane 
was  destined  to  wear  the  laurel.  In  real  life  I 
have  rather  a,  flair  for  future  eminence.  In  novels 
I  am  apt  to  be  wise  only  after  the  event.  There 
the  young  men  who  do  in  due  course  take  the 
town  by  storm  have  seldom  shown  (to  my  dull 
eyes)  promise.  Their  spoken  thoughts  have  seemed 
to  me  no  more  profound  or  pungent  than  my  own. 
All  that  is  best  in  these  authors  goes  into  their 
work.  But,  though  I  complain  of  them  on  this 
count,  I  admit  that  the  thrill  for  me  of  their 
triumphs  is  the  more  rapturous  because  every  time 
it  catches  me  unawares.  One  of  the  greatest 
emotions  I  ever  had  was  from  the  triumph  of 
The  Gift  of  Gifts.  Of  this  novel  within  a  novel 
the  author  was  not  a  young  man  at  all,  but  an 
elderly  clergyman  whose  life  had  been  spent  in  a 
little  rural  parish.  He  was  a  dear,  simple  old  man, 
a  widower.  He  had  a  large  family,  a  small  stipend. 
Judge,  then,  of  his  horror  when  he  found  that  his 
eldest  son,  'a  scholar  at  Christminster  College, 
Oxbridge,'  had  run  into  debt  for  many  hundreds 
of  pounds.  Where  to  turn.'*  The  father  was  too 
proud  to  borrow  of  the  neighbourly  nobleman 
who  in  Oxbridge  days  had  been  his  'chum.'     Nor 


BOOKS  WITHIN  BOOKS  107 

had  the  father  ever  practised  the  art  of  writing. 
(We  are  told  that  'his  sermons  were  always  ex- 
tempore.')  But,  years  ago,  'he  had  once  thought 
of  writing  a  novel  based  on  an  experience  which 
happened  to  a  friend  of  his.'  This  novel,  in  the 
fullness  of  time,  he  now  proceeded  to  write,  though 
*  without  much  hope  of  success.'  He  knew  that 
he  was  suffering  from  heart-disease.  But  he  worked 
'feverishly,  night  after  night,'  we  are  told,  'in  his 
old  faded  dressing-gown,  till  the  dawn  mingled 
with  the  light  of  his  candle  and  warned  him  to 
snatch  a  few  hours'  rest,  failing  which  he  would  be 
little  able  to  perform  the  round  of  parish  duties 
that  awaited  him  in  the  daytime.'  No  wonder  he 
had  'not  much  hope.'  No  wonder  I  had  no  spark 
of  hope  for  him.  But  what  are  obstacles  for  but 
to  be  overleapt.f^  What  avails  heart-disease,  what 
avail  eld  and  feverish  haste  and  total  lack  of  liter- 
ary training,  as  against  the  romantic  instinct  of 
the  lady  who  created  the  Rev.  Charles  Hailing.'^ 
'The  Gift  of  Gifts  was  acclaimed  as  a  master- 
piece by  all  the  first-class  critics.'  Also,  it  very 
soon  '  brought  in '  ten  times  as  much  money  as  was 
needed  to  pay  off  the  debts  of  its  author's  eldest 
son.  Nor,  though  Charles  Hailing  died  some 
months  later,  are  we  told  that  he  died  from  the 
strain  of  composition.  We  are  left  merely  to  re- 
joice at  knowing  he  knew  at  the  last '  that  his  whole 
family  was  provided  for.' 


108  AND  EVEN  NOW 

I  wonder  why  it  is  that,  whilst  these  Charles 
Hailings  and  Aylmer  Deanes  delightfully  abound 
in  the  lower  reaches  of  English  fiction,  we  have 
so  seldom  found  in  the  work  of  our  great  novelists 
anything  at  all  about  the  writing  of  a  great  book. 
It  is  true,  of  course,  that  our  great  novelists  have 
never  had  for  the  idea  of  literature  itself  that 
passion  which  has  always  burned  in  the  great 
French  ones.  Their  own  art  has  never  seemed 
to  them  the  most  important  and  interesting  thing 
in  life.  Also  it  is  true  that  they  have  had  other 
occupations — fox-hunting,  preaching,  editing  mag- 
azines, what  not.  Yet  to  them  literature  must, 
as  their  own  main  task,  have  had  a  peculiar  interest 
and  importance.  No  fine  work  can  be  done  with- 
out concentration  and  self-sacrifice  and  toil  and 
doubt.  It  is  nonsense  to  imagine  that  our  great 
novelists  have  just  forged  ahead  or  ambled  along, 
reaching  their  goal,  in  the  good  old  English  fashion, 
by  sheer  divination  of  the  way  to  it.  A  fine 
book,  with  all  that  goes  to  the  making  of  it,  is  as 
fine  a  theme  as  a  novelist  can  have.  But  it  is  a 
part  of  English  hypocrisy — or,  let  it  be  more  politely 
said,  English  reserve — that,  whilst  we  are  fluent 
enough  in  grumbling  about  small  inconveniences, 
we  insist  on  making  light  of  any  great  difficulties 
or  griefs  that  may  beset  us.  And  just  there,  I 
suppose,  is  the  reason  why  our  great  novelists 
have    shunned    great    books    as    subject-matter. 


BOOKS  WITHIN  BOOKS  109 

It  Is  fortunate  for  us  (jarring  though  it  is  to  our 
patriotic  sense)  that  Mr.  Henry  James  was  not 
born  an  Englishman,  that  he  was  born  of  a  race  of 
specialists — men  who  are  impenitent  specialists  in 
whatever  they  take  up,  be  it  sport,  commerce, 
politics,  anything.  And  it  is  fortunate  for  us  that 
in  Paris,  and  in  the  straitest  literary  sect  there, 
his  method  began  to  form  itself,  and  the  art  of 
prose  fiction  became  to  him  a  religion.  In  that  art 
he  finds  as  much  inspiration  as  Swinburne  found 
in  the  art  of  poetry.  Just  as  Swinburne  was 
the  most  learned  of  our  poets,  so  is  Mr.  James 
the  most  learned  of  our— let  us  say  'our' — 
prose- writers.  I  doubt  whether  the  heaped  total 
of  his  admirations  would  be  found  to  outweigh 
the  least  one  of  the  admirations  that  Swinburne 
had.  But,  though  he  has  been  a  level-headed 
reader  of  the  works  that  are  good  enough  for  him 
to  praise,  his  abstract  passion  for  the  art  of  fiction 
itself  has  always  been  fierce  and  constant.  Partly 
to  the  Parisian,  partly  to  the  American  element  in 
him  we  owe  the  stories  that  he,  and  of  '  our '  great 
writers  he  only,  has  written  about  books  and  the 
writers  of  books. 

Here,  indeed,  in  these  incomparable  stories, 
are  imaginary  great  books  that  are  as  real  to  us 
as  real  ones  are.  Sometimes,  as  in  'The  Author 
of  "Beltrafiio," '  a  great  book  itself  is  the  very 
hero  of  the  story.     (We  are  not  told  what  exactly 


110  AND  EVEN  NOW 

was  the  title  of  that  second  book  which  Ambient' s 
wife  so  hated  that  she  let  her  child  die  rather  than 
that  he  should  grow  up  under  the  influence  of  its 
author;  but  I  have  a  queer  conviction  that  it  was 
The  Daisies.)  Usually,  in  these  stories,  it  is 
through  the  medium  of  some  ardent  young  disciple, 
speaking  in  the  first  person,  that  we  become 
familiar  with  the  great  writer.  It  is  thus  that  we 
know  Hugh  Vereker,  throughout  whose  twenty 
volumes  was  woven  that  message,  or  meaning,  that 
*  figure  in  the  carpet,'  which  eluded  even  the  elect. 
It  is  thus  that  we  know  Neil  Paraday,  the  MS.  of 
whose  last  book  was  mislaid  and  lost  so  tragic- 
ally, so  comically.  And  it  is  also  through  Para- 
day's  disciple  that  we  make  incidental  acquaintance 
with  Guy  Walsingham,  the  young  lady  who  wrote 
Obsessions,  and  with  Dora  Forbes,  the  burly 
man  with  a  red  moustache,  who  wrote  The  Other 
Way  Round.  These  two  books  are  the  only 
inferior  books  mentioned  by  Mr.  James.  But  stay, 
I  was  forgetting  The  Top  of  the  Tree,  by  Amy 
Evans;  and  also  those  nearly  forty  volumes  by 
Henry  St.  George.  For  all  the  greatness  of  his 
success  in  life,  Henry  St.  George  is  the  saddest 
of  the  authors  portrayed  by  Mr.  James.  His 
Shadowmere  was  splendid,  and  its  splendour 
is  the  measure  of  his  shame — the  shame  he  bore 
so  bravely — in  the  ruck  of  his  'output.'  He  is 
the  only  one  of  those  authors  who  did  not  do  his 


BOOKS  WITHIN  BOOKS  111 

best.  Of  him  alone  it  may  not  be  said  that  he  was 
'generous  and  dehcate  and  pursued  the  prize.'  He 
is  a  more  pathetic  figure  than  even  Dencombe, 
the  author  of  The  Middle  Years.  Dencombe's 
grievance  was  against  fate,  not  against  himself. 

It  had  taken  too  much  of  his  Hfe  to  produce  too  httle  of  his 
art.  The  art  had  come,  but  it  had  come  after  everything  else. 
"Ah,  for  another  go! — ah,  for  a  better  chance.'  ...  'A  second 
chance — thafs  the  delusion.  There  never  was  to  be  but  one. 
We  work  in  the  dark — we  do  what  we  can — we  give  what  we 
have.  Our  doubt  is  our  passion  and  our  passion  is  our  task. 
The  rest  is  the  madness  of  art.' 

The  scene  of  Dencombe's  death  is  one  of  the  most 
deeply-beautiful  things  ever  done  by  Mr.  James. 
It  is  so  beautiful  as  to  be  hardly  sad;  it  rises 
and  glows  and  gladdens.  It  is  more  exquisite 
than  anything  in  The  Middle  Years.  No,  I  will 
not  say  that.  Mr.  James's  art  can  always  carry 
to  us  the  conviction  that  his  characters'  books  are 
as  fine  as  his  own. 

I  crave — it  may  be  a  foolish  whim,  but  I  do 
crave — ocular  evidence  for  my  belief  that  those 
books  were  written  and  were  published.  I  want 
to  see  them  all  ranged  along  goodly  shelves. 
A  few  days  ago  I  sat  in  one  of  those  libraries 
which  seem  to  be  doorless.  Nowhere,  to  the  eye, 
was  broken  the  array  of  serried  volumes.  Each 
door  was  flush  with  the  surrounding  shelves; 
across  each  the  edges  of  the  shelves  were  mimicked 


112  AND  EVEN  NOW 

and  In  the  spaces  between  these  edges  the  backs  of 
books  were  pasted  congruously  with  the  whole 
effect.  Some  of  these  backs  had  been  taken  from 
actual  books,  others  had  been  made  specially 
and  were  stamped  with  facetious  titles  that  rather 
depressed  me.  'Here,'  thought  I,  'are  the  shelves 
on  which  Dencombe's  works  ought  to  be  made 
manifest.  And  Neil  Faraday's  too,  and  Vereker's.' 
Not  Henry  St.  George's,  of  course:  he  would  not 
himself  have  wished  it,  poor  fellow !  I  would  have 
nothing  of  his  except  Shadowmere.  But  Ray 
Limbert! — I  would  have  all  of  his,  including  a  first 
edition  of  The  Major  Key,  'that  fiery-hearted 
rose  as  to  which  we  watched  in  private  the  forma- 
tion of  petal  after  petal,  and  flame  after  flame'; 
and  also  The  Hidden  Heart,  'the  shortest  of 
his  novels,  but  perhaps  the  loveliest,'  as  Mr.  James 
and  I  have  always  thought.  .  .  .  How  my  fingers 
would  hover  along  these  shelves,  always  just  going 
to  alight,  but  never,  lest  the  spell  were  broken, 
alighting! 

How  well  they  would  look  there,  those  treasures 
of  mine!  And,  most  of  them  having  been  issued 
in  the  seemly  old  three-volume  form,  how  many 
shelves  they  would  fill!  But  I  should  find  a  place 
certainly  for  a  certain  small  brown  book  adorned 
with  a  gilt  griflSn  between  wheatsheaves.  The 
Pilgrim's  Scrip,  that  delightful  though  anonymous 
work  of  my  old  friend  Austin  Absworthy  Bearne 


BOOKS  WITHIN  BOOKS  113 

Feverel.  And  I  should  like  to  find  a  place  for 
Poems,  by  Aurora  Leigh.  Mr.  Snodgrass's  book 
of  verses  might  grace  one  of  the  lower  shelves. 
(What  is  the  title  of  it?  Amelia's  Bower,  I 
hazard.)  Recollections  of  the  Late  Lord 
Byron  and  Others,  by  Captain  Sumph,  would  be 
somewhere;  for  Sumph  did,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear, 
take  Shandon's  advice  and  compile  a  volume. 
Bungay  published  it.  Indeed,  of  the  books  for 
which  I  should  find  room  there  are  a  good  few 
that  bear  the  imprimatur  of  Bungay.  Despera- 
tion, OR  The  Fugitive  Duchess,  by  The  Hon. 
Percy  Popjoy,  was  Bungay's;  and  so,  of  course, 
were  Passion  Flowers  and  Walter  Lorraine. 
Of  the  books  issued  by  the  rival  firm  of  Bacon  I 
possess  but  one:  Memoirs  of  the  Poisoners,  by 
Dr.  Slocum.  Near  to  Popjoy's  romance  would  be 
The  Lady  Flabella,  of  which  Mrs.  Wititterly  said 
to  Kate  Nickleby,  *So  voluptuous,  is  it  not — so 
soft?'  Who  Put  Back  the  Clock?  would  have 
a  place  of  honour  (unearned  by  its  own  merits?). 
Among  other  novels  that  I  could  not  spare.  The 
Gift  of  Gifts  would  conspicuously  gleam.  As  for 
Foments — ah,  I  should  not  be  content  with  one 
copy  of  that.  Even  at  the  risk  of  crowding  out  a 
host  of  treasures,  I  vow  I  would  have  a  copy  of 
every  one  of  the  editions  that  Foments  ran 
through. 


THE  GOLDEN  DRUGGET 


THE  GOLDEN  DRUGGET 

1918. 

PRIMITIVE  and  essential  things  laave  great 
power  to  touch  the  heart  of  the  beholder. 
I  mean  such  things  as  a  man  ploughing  a 
field,  or  sowing  or  reaping;  a  girl  filling  a  pitcher 
from  a  spring;  a  young  mother  with  her  child; 
a  fisherman  mending  his  nets;  a  light  from  a 
lonely  hut  on  a  dark  night. 

Things  such  as  these  are  the  best  themes  for 
poets  and  painters,  and  appeal  to  aught  that  there 
may  be  of  painter  or  poet  in  any  one  of  us.  Strictly, 
they  are  not  so  old  as  the  hills,  but  they  are  more 
significant  and  eloquent  than  hills.  Hills  will 
outlast  them;  but  hills  glacially  surviving  the 
life  of  man  on  this  planet  are  of  as  little  account  as 
hills  tremulous  and  hot  in  ages  before  the  life  of 
man  had  its  beginning.  Nature  is  interesting  only 
because  of  us.  And  the  best  symbols  of  us  are 
such  sights  as  I  have  just  mentioned — sights  unal- 
terable by  fashion  of  time  or  place,  sights  that  in  all 
countries  always  were  and  never  will  not  be. 

It  is  true  that  in  many  districts  nowadays  there 
are  elaborate  new  kinds  of  machinery  for  ploughing 

117 


118  AND  EVEN  NOW 

the  fields  and  reaping  the  corn.  In  the  most 
progressive  districts  of  all,  I  daresay,  the  very 
sowing  of  the  grain  is  done  by  means  of  some  en- 
gine, with  better  results  than  could  be  got  by  hand. 
For  aught  I  know,  there  is  a  patented  invention 
for  catching  fish  by  electricity.  It  is  natural  that 
we  should,  in  some  degree,  pride  ourselves  on  such 
triumphs.  It  is  well  that  we  should  have  poems 
about  them,  and  pictures  of  them.  But  such 
poems  and  pictures  cannot  touch  our  hearts  very 
deeply.  They  cannot  stir  in  us  the  sense  of  our 
kinship  with  the  whole  dim  past  and  the  whole 
dim  future.  The  ancient  Egyptians  were  great  at 
scientific  dodges — very  great  indeed,  nearly  as 
great  as  we,  the  archaeologists  tell  us.  Sand  buried 
the  memory  of  those  dodges  for  a  rather  long  time. 
How  are  we  to  know  that  the  glories  of  our  present 
civilisation  will  never  be  lost.^^  The  world's  coal- 
mines and  oil-fields  are  exhaustible;  and  it  is  not, 
I  am  told,  by  any  means  certain  that  scientists  will 
discover  any  good  substitutes  for  the  materials 
which  are  necessary  to  mankind's  present  pitch  of 
glory.  Mankind  may,  I  infer,  have  to  sink  back 
into  slow  and  simple  ways,  continent  be  once  more 
separated  from  continent,  nation  from  nation, 
village  from  village.  And,  even  supposing  that  the 
present  rate  of  traction  and  communication  and  all 
the  rest  of  it  can  forever  be  maintained,  is  our 
modern  way  of  life  so  great  a  success  that  mankind 


THE  GOLDEN  DRUGGET  119 

will  surely  never  be  willing  to  let  it  lapse?  Doubt- 
less, that  present  rate  can  be  not  only  maintained, 
but  also  accelerated  immensely,  in  the  near  future. 
Will  these  greater  glories  be  voted,  even  by  the 
biggest  fools,  an  improvement?  We  smile  already 
at  the  people  of  the  early  nineteenth  century  who 
thought  that  the  vistas  opened  by  applied  science 
were  very  heavenly.  We  have  travelled  far  along 
those  vistas.  Light  is  not  abundant  in  them,  is  it? 
We  are  proud  of  having  gone  such  a  long  way, 
but  .  .  .  peradventure,  those  who  come  after  us 
will  turn  back,  sooner  or  later,  of  their  own  accord. 
This  is  a  humbling  thought.  If  the  wonders  of  our 
civilisation  are  doomed,  we  should  prefer  them  to 
cease  through  lack  of  the  minerals  and  mineral 
products  that  keep  them  going.  Possibly  they  are 
not  doomed  at  all.  But  this  chance  counts  for 
little  as  against  the  certainty  that,  whatever 
happens,  the  primitive  and  essential  things  will 
never,  anywhere,  wholly  cease,  while  mankind 
lasts.  And  thus  it  is  that  Brown's  Ode  to  the  Steam 
Plough,  Jones'  Sonnet  Sequence  on  the  Automatic 
Reaping  Machine,  and  Robinson's  Epic  of  the 
Piscicidal  Dynamo,  leave  unstirred  the  deeper 
depths  of  emotion  in  us.  The  subjects  chosen 
by  these  three  great  poets  do  not  much  impress 
us  when  we  regard  them  sub  specie  aeternitatis. 
Smith  has  painted  nothing  more  masterly  than  his 
picture  of  a  girl  turning  a  hot- water  tap.     But  has 


120  AND  EVEN  NOW 

he  never  seen  a  girl  fill  a  pitcher  from  a  spring? 
Smithers'  picture  of  a  young  mother  seconding  a 
resolution  at  a  meeting  of  a  Board  of  Guardians  is 
magnificent,  as  brush  work.  But  why  not  have  cut 
out  the  Board  and  put  in  the  baby?  I  yield  to  no 
one  in  admiration  of  Smithkins'  'Fagade  of  the 
Waldorf  Hotel  by  Night,  in  Peace  Time.'  But  a 
single  light  from  a  lonely  hut  would  have  been  a 
finer  theme. 

I  should  like  to  show  Smithkins  the  thing  that  I 
call  The  Golden  Drugget.  Or  rather,  as  this  thing 
is  greatly  romantic  to  me,  and  that  painter  is  so 
mif  ortunate  in  his  surname,  I  should  like  Smith- 
kins to  find  it  for  himself. 

These  words  are  written  in  war  time  and  in 
England.  There  are,  I  hear,  'lighting  restric- 
tions' even  on  the  far  Riviera  di  Levante.  I  take 
it  that  the  Golden  Drugget  is  not  outspread  now- 
anights  across  the  high  dark  coast-road  between 
Rapallo  and  Zoagli.  But  the  lonely  wayside  inn 
is  still  there,  doubtless;  and  its  narrow  door  will 
again  stand  open,  giving  out  for  wayfarers  its 
old  span  of  brightness  into  darkness,  when  peace 
comes. 

It  is  nothing  by  daylight,  that  inn.  If  anything, 
it  is  rather  an  offence.  Steep  behind  it  rise  moun- 
tains that  are  grey  all  over  with  olive  trees,  and 
beneath  it,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  the  cliff 
falls  sheer  to  the  sea.     The  road  is  white,  the  sea 


THE  GOLDEN  DRUGGET  121 

and  sky  are  usually  of  a  deep  bright  blue,  there 
are  many  single  cypresses  among  the  olives.  It  is 
a  scene  of  good  colour  and  noble  form.  It  is  a  gay 
and  a  grand  scene,  in  which  the  inn,  though  un- 
assuming, is  unpleasing,  if  you  pay  attention  to  it. 
An  ugly  little  box-like  inn.  A  stuffy-looking  and 
uninviting  inn.  Salt  and  tobacco,  it  announces  in 
faint  letters  above  the  door,  may  be  bought  there. 
But  one  would  prefer  to  buy  these  things  elsewhere. 
There  is  a  bench  outside,  and  a  rickety  table  with 
a  zinc  top  to  it,  and  sometimes  a  peasant  or  two 
drinking  a  glass  or  two  of  wine.  The  proprietress 
is  very  unkempt.  To  Don  Quixote  she  would  have 
seemed  a  princess,  and  the  inn  a  castle,  and  the 
peasants  notable  magicians.  Don  Quixote  would 
have  paused  here  and  done  something.  Not  so 
do  I. 

By  daylight,  on  the  way  down  from  my  little 
home  to  Rapallo,  or  up  from  Rapallo  home,  I  am 
indeed  hardly  conscious  that  this  inn  exists.  By 
moonlight,  too  it  is  negligible.  Stars  are  rather 
unbecoming  to  it.  But  on  a  thoroughly  dark  night, 
when  it  is  manifest  as  nothing  but  a  strip  of  yellow 
light  cast  across  the  road  from  an  ever-open  door, 
great  always  is  its  magic  for  me.  Is?  Imeanwas, 
But  then,  I  mean  also  will  be.  And  so  I  cleave 
to  the  present  tense — the  nostalgic  present,  as 
grammarians  might  call  it. 

Likewise,  when  I  say  that  thoroughly  dark  nights 


122  .AND  EVEN  NOW 

are  rare  here,  I  mean  that  they  are  rare  in  the 
Gulf  of  Genoa.  Clouds  do  not  seem  to  like  our 
landscape.  But  it  has  often  struck  me  that 
Italian  nights,  whenever  clouds  do  congregate,  are 
somehow  as  much  darker  than  English  nights  as 
Italian  days  are  brighter  than  days  in  England. 
They  have  a  heavier  and  thicker  nigritude.  They 
shut  things  out  from  you  more  impenetrably. 
They  enclose  you  as  in  a  small  pavilion  of  black 
velvet.  This  tenement  is  not  very  comfortable  in 
a  strong  gale.  It  makes  you  feel  rather  helpless. 
And  gales  can  be  strong  enough,  in  the  late 
autumn,  on  the  Riviera  di  Levante. 

It  is  on  nights  when  the  wind  blows  its  hardest, 
but  makes  no  rift  anywhere  for  a  star  to  peep 
through,  that  the  Golden  Drugget,  as  I  approach  it, 
gladdens  my  heart  the  most.  The  distance  between 
Rapallo  and  my  home  up  yonder  is  rather  more 
than  two  miles.  The  road  curves  and  zigzags 
sharply,  for  the  most  part;  but  at  the  end  of  the 
first  mile  it  runs  straight  for  three  or  four  hundred 
yards;  and,  as  the  inn  stands  at  a  point  midway  on 
this  straight  course,  the  Golden  Drugget  is  visible 
to  me  long  before  I  come  to  it.  Even  by  starlight, 
it  is  good  to  see.  How  much  better,  if  I  happen 
to  be  out  on  a  black  rough  night  when  nothing  is 
disclosed  but  this  one  calm  bright  thing.  Nothing.? 
Well,  there  has  been  descriable,  all  the  way,  a 
certain  grey  glimmer  immediately  in  front  of  my 


^THE  GOLDEN  DRUGGET  123 

feet.  This,  in  point  of  fact,  is  the  road,  and 
by  following  it  carefully  I  have  managed  to  escape 
collision  with  trees,  bushes,  stone  walls.  The 
continuous  shrill  wailing  of  trees'  branches  writhing 
unseen  but  near,  and  the  great  hoarse  roar  of  the 
sea  against  the  rocks  far  down  below,  are  no  cheer- 
ful accompaniment  for  the  buffeted  pilgrim.  He 
feels  that  he  is  engaged  in  single  combat  with 
Nature  at  her  unfriendliest.  He  isn't  sure  that  she 
hasn't  supernatural  allies  working  with  her — 
witches  on  broomsticks  circling  closely  round  him, 
demons  in  pursuit  of  him  or  waiting  to  leap  out 
on  him.  And  how  about  mere  robbers  and  cut- 
throats.'' Suppose — but  look!  that  streak,  yonder, 
look! — the  Golden  Drugget. 

There  it  is,  familiar,  serene,  festal.  That  the 
pilgrim  knew  he  would  see  it  in  due  time  does  not 
diminish  for  him  the  queer  joy  of  seeing  it;  nay, 
this  emotion  would  be  far  less  without  that  fore- 
knowledge. Some  things  are  best  at  first  sight. 
Others — and  here  is  one  of  them — do  ever  improve 
by  recognition.  I  remember  that  when  first  I 
beheld  this  steady  strip  of  light,  shed  forth  over  a 
threshold  level  with  the  road,  it  seemed  to  me 
conceivably  sinister.  It  brought  Stevenson  to  my 
mind:  the  chink  of  doubloons  and  the  clash  of 
cutlasses;  and  I  think  I  quickened  pace  as  I  passed 
it.  But  now! — now  it  inspires  in  me  a  sense  of 
deep  trust  and  gratitude;   and  such  awe  as  I  have 


124  AND  EVEN  NOW 

for  it  is  altogether  a  loving  awe,  as  for  holy  ground 
that  should  be  trod  lightly.  A  drugget  of  crimson 
cloth  across  a  London  pavement  is  rather  resented 
by  the  casual  passer-by,  as  saying  to  him  'Step 
across  me,  stranger,  but  not  along  me,  not  in!' 
and  for  answer  he  spurns  it  with  his  heel.  '  Stranger, 
come  in!'  is  the  clear  message  of  the  Golden 
Drugget.  *This  is  but  a  humble  and  earthly 
hostel,  yet  you  will  find  here  a  radiant  company  of 
angels  and  archangels.'  And  always  I  cherish 
the  belief  that  if  I  obeyed  the  summons  I  should 
receive  fulfilment  of  the  promise.  Well,  the  beliefs 
that  one  most  cherishes  one  is  least  willing  to  test. 
I  do  not  go  in  at  that  open  door.  But  lingering, 
but  reluctant,  is  my  tread  as  I  pass  by  it;  and 
I  pause  to  bathe  in  the  light  that  is  as  the  span  of 
our  human  life,  granted  between  one  great  dark- 
ness and  another. 


HOSTS   AND    GUESTS 


HOSTS   AND   GUESTS 

igi8. 

BEAUTIFULLY  vague  though  the  English 
language  is,  with  its  meanings  merging 
into  one  another  as  softly  as  the  facts  of 
landscape  in  the  moist  English  climate,  and  much 
addicted  though  we  always  have  been  to  ways  of 
compromise,  and  averse  from  sharp  hard  logical 
outlines,  we  do  not  call  a  host  a  guest,  nor  a  guest 
a  host.  The  ancient  Romans  did  so.  They,  with 
a  language  that  was  as  lucid  as  their  climate 
and  was  a  perfect  expression  of  the  sharp  hard 
logical  outlook  fostered  by  that  climate,  had  but 
one  word  for  those  two  things.  Nor  have  their 
equally  acute  descendants  done  what  might  have 
been  expected  of  them  in  this  matter.  Hole  and 
ospite  and  hespide  are  as  mysteriously  equivocal  as 
hospes.  By  weight  of  all  this  authority  I  find  my- 
self being  dragged  to  the  conclusion  that  a  host  and 
a  guest  must  be  the  same  thing,  after  all.  Yet  in  a 
dim  and  muzzy  way,  deep  down  in  my  breast, 
I  feel  sure  that  they  are  different.  Compromise, 
you  see,  as  usual.  I  take  it  that  strictly  the  two 
things  are  one,  but  that  our  division  of  them  is 

127 


128  AND  EVEN  NOW 

yet  another  instance  of  that  sterHng  common-sense 
by  which,  etc.,  etc. 

I  would  go  even  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  difference 
is  more  than  merely  circumstantial  and  particular. 
I  seem  to  discern  also  a  temperamental  and  general 
difference.  You  ask  me  to  dine  with  you  in  a 
restaurant,  I  say  I  shall  be  delighted,  you  order 
the  meal,  I  praise  it,  you  pay  for  it,  I  have  the 
pleasant  sensation  of  not  paying  for  it;  and  it  is 
well  that  each  of  us  should  have  a  label  according 
to  the  part  he  plays  in  this  transaction.  But  the 
two  labels  are  applicable  in  a  larger  and  more 
philosophic  way.  In  every  human  being  one  or  the 
other  of  these  two  instincts  is  predominant:  the 
active  or  positive  instinct  to  offer  hospitality,  the 
negative  or  passive  instinct  to  accept  it.  And 
either  of  these  instincts  is  so  significant  of  character 
that  one  might  well  say  that  mankind  is  divisible 
into  two  great  classes :  hosts  and  guests. 

I  have  already  (see  third  sentence  of  foregoing 
paragraph)  somewhat  prepared  you  for  the  shock 
of  a  confession  which  candour  now  forces  from 
me.  I  am  one  of  the  guests.  You  are,  however, 
so  shocked  that  you  will  read  no  more  of  me.^^ 
Bravo!  Your  refusal  indicates  that  you  have  not 
a  guestish  soul.  Here  am  I  trying  to  entertain 
you,  and  you  will  not  be  entertained.  You  stand 
shouting  that  it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  re- 
ceive. Very  well.  For  my  part,  I  would  rather  read 


HOSTS  AND  GUESTS  129 

than  write,  any  day.  You  shall  write  this  essay  for 
me.  Be  it  never  so  humble,  I  shall  give  it  my  best 
attention  and  manage  to  say  something  nice  about 
it.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  calming  suddenly  down. 
Nothing  but  a  sense  of  duty  to  myself,  and  to 
guests  in  general,  makes  me  resume  my  pen,  I 
believe  guests  to  be  as  numerous,  really,  as  hosts. 
It  may  be  that  even  you,  if  you  examine  yourself 
dispassionately,  will  find  that  you  are  one  of  them. 
In  which  case,  you  may  yet  thank  me  for  some 
comfort.  I  think  there  are  good  qualities  to  be 
found  in  guests,  and  some  bad  ones  in  even  the 
best  hosts. 

Our  deepest  instincts,  bad  or  good,  are  those 
which  we  share  with  the  rest  of  the  animal  creation. 
To  offer  hospitality,  or  to  accept  it,  is  but  an 
instinct  which  man  has  acquired  in  the  long  course 
of  his  self-development.  Lions  do  not  ask  one 
another  to  their  lairs,  nor  do  birds  keep  open  nest. 
Certain  wolves  and  tigers,  it  is  true,  have  been  so 
seduced  by  man  from  their  natural  state  they  they 
will  deign  to  accept  man's  hospitality.  But  when 
you  give  a  bone  to  your  dog,  does  he  run  out  and 
invite  another  dog  to  share  it  with  him.^ — and  does 
your  cat  insist  on  having  a  circle  of  other  cats 
around  her  saucer  of  milk?  Quite  the  contrary. 
A  deep  sense  of  personal  property  is  common  to  all 
these  creatures.  Thousands  of  years  hence  they 
may  have  acquired  some  willingness  to  share  things 


130  AND  EVEN  NOW 

with  their  friends.  Or  rather,  dogs  may;  eats, 
I  think,  not.  Meanwhile,  let  us  not  be  censorious. 
Though  certain  monkeys  assuredly  were  of  finer 
and  more  malleable  stuff  than  any  wolves  or  tigers, 
it  was  a  very  long  time  indeed  before  even  we 
began  to  be  hospitable.  The  cavemen  did  not 
entertain.  It  may  be  that  now  and  again — say, 
towards  the  end  of  the  Stone  Age — one  or  another 
among  the  more  enlightened  of  them  said  to  his 
wife,  while  she  plucked  an  eagle  that  he  had  snared 
the  day  before,  'That  red-haired  man  who  lives 
in  the  next  valley  seems  to  be  a  decent,  harmless 
sort  of  person.  And  sometimes  I  fancy  he  is  rather 
lonely.  I  think  I  will  ask  him  to  dine  with  us 
to-night,'  and,  presently  going  out,  met  the  red- 
haired  man  and  said  to  him,  'Are  you  doing  any- 
thing to-night?  If  not,  won't  you  dine  with  us? 
It  would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  my  wife.  Only 
ourselves.  Come  just  as  you  are.'  'That  is  most 
good  of  you,  but,'  stammered  the  red-haired  man, 
'as  ill-luck  will  have  it,  I  am  engaged  to-night. 
A  long-standing,  formal  invitation.  I  wish  I  could 
get  out  of  it,  but  I  simply  can't.  I  have  a  morbid 
conscientiousness  about  such  things.'  Thus  we 
see  that  the  will  to  offer  hospitality  was  an  earlier 
growth  than  the  will  to  accept  it.  But  we  must 
beware  of  thinking  these  two  things  identical  with 
the  mere  will  to  give  and  the  mere  will  to  receive. 
It  is  unlikely  that  the  red-haired  man  would  have 


HOSTS  AND  GUESTS  131 

refused  a  slice  of  eagle  if  it  had  been  offered  to 
him  where  he  stood.  And  it  is  still  more  unlikely 
that  his  friend  would  have  have  handed  it  to  him. 
Such  is  not  the  way  of  hosts.  The  hospitable 
instinct  is  not  wholly  altruistic.  There  is  pride 
and  egoism  mixed  up  with  it,  as  I  shall  show. 

Meanwhile,  why  did  the  red-haired  man  babble 
those  excuses.'*  It  was  because  he  scented  danger. 
He  was  not  by  nature  suspicious,  but — what  pos- 
sible motive,  except  murder,  could  this  man  have 
for  enticing  him  to  that  cave?  Acquaintance  in  the 
open  valley  was  all  very  well  and  pleasant,  but  a 
strange  den  after  dark — no,  no !  You  despise  him 
for  his  fears  .f*  Yet  these  were  not  really  so  absurd 
as  they  may  seem.  As  man  progressed  in  civilisa- 
tion, and  grew  to  be  definitely  gregarious,  hospi- 
tality became  more  a  matter  of  course.  But  even 
then  it  was  not  above  suspicion.  It  was  not  hedged 
around  with  those  unwritten  laws  which  make  it 
the  safe  and  eligible  thing  we  know  to-day.  In  the 
annals  of  hospitality  there  are  many  pages  that 
make  painful  reading;  many  a  great  dark  blot  is 
there  which  the  Recording  Angel  may  wish,  but 
will  not  be  able,  to  wipe  out  with  a  tear. 

If  I  were  a  host,  I  should  ignore  those  tomes. 
Being  a  guest,  I  sometimes  glance  into  them, 
but  with  more  of  horror,  I  assure  you,  than  of 
malicious  amusement.  I  carefully  avoid  those 
which  treat  of  hospitality  among  barbarous  races. 


132  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Things  done  in  the  best  periods  of  the  most  en- 
lightened peoples  are  quite  bad  enough.  The 
Israelites  were  the  salt  of  the  earth.  But  can  you 
imagine  a  deed  of  colder-blooded  treachery  than 
Jael's?  You  would  think  it  must  have  been  held 
accursed  by  even  the  basest  minds.  Yet  thus  sang 
Deborah  and  Barak,  'Blessed  above  women  shall 
Jael  the  wife  of  Heber  the  Kenite  be,  blessed  shall 
she  be  among  women  in  the  tent.'  And  Barak, 
remember,  was  a  gallant  soldier,  and  Deborah  was 
a  prophetess  who  'judged  Israel  at  that  time.' 
So  much  for  the  ideals  of  hospitality  among  the 
children  of  Israel. 

Of  the  Homeric  Greeks  it  may  be  said  that  they 
too  were  the  salt  of  the  earth ;  and  it  may  be  added 
that  in  their  pungent  and  antiseptic  quality  there 
was  mingled  a  measure  of  sweetness,  not  to  be  found 
in  the  children  of  Israel.  I  do  not  say  outright 
that  Odysseus  ought  not  to  have  slain  the  suitors. 
That  is  a  debatable  point.  It  is  true  that  they 
were  guests  under  his  roof.  But  he  had  not  invited 
them.  Let  us  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 
I  am  thinking  of  another  episode  in  his  life.  By 
what  Circe  did,  and  by  his  disregard  of  what  she 
had  done,  a  searching  light  is  cast  on  the  laxity 
of  Homeric  Greek  notions  as  to  what  was  due  to 
guests.  Odysseus  was  a  clever,  but  not  a  bad  man, 
and  his  standard  of  general  conduct  was  high 
enough.     Yet,  having  foiled  Circe  in  her  purpose 


HOSTS  AND  GUESTS  133 

to  turn  him  into  a  swine,  and  having  forced  lier  to 
restore  his  comrades  to  human  shape,  he  did  not 
let  pass  the  barrier  of  his  teeth  any  such  winged 
words  as  'Now  will  I  bide  no  more  under  thy 
roof,  Circe,  but  fare  across  the  sea  with  my  dear 
comrades,  even  unto  mine  own  home,  for  that  which 
thou  didst  was  an  evil  thing,  and  one  not  meet  to 
be  done  unto  strangers  by  the  daughter  of  a  god.' 
He  seems  to  have  said  nothing  in  particular,  to  have 
accepted  with  alacrity  the  invitation  that  he  and 
his  dear  comrades  should  prolong  their  visit,  and 
to  have  prolonged  it  with  them  for  a  whole  year, 
in  the  course  of  which  Circe  bore  him  a  son,  named 
Telegonus.  As  Matthew  Arnold  would  have  said, 
'What  a  set!' 

My  eye  roves,  for  relief,  to  those  shelves  where 
the  later  annals  are.  I  take  down  a  tome  at  ran- 
dom. Rome  in  the  fifteenth  century :  civilisation 
never  was  more  brilliant  than  there  and  then,  I 
imagine;  and  yet — no,  I  replace  that  tome.  I 
saw  enough  in  it  to  remind  me  that  the  Borgias 
selected  and  laid  down  rare  poisons  in  their  cellars 
with  as  much  thought  as  they  gave  to  their  vintage 
wines.  Extraordinary! — but  the  Romans  do  not 
seem  to  have  thought  so.  An  invitation  to  dine 
at  the  Palazzo  Borghese  was  accounted  the  highest 
social  honour.  I  am  aware  that  in  recent  books  of 
Italian  history  there  has  been  a  tendency  to  whiten 
the  Borgias'  characters.     But  I  myself  hold  to  the 


134  AND  EVEN  NOW 

old  romantic  black  way  of  looking  at  the  Borgias.  I 
maintain  that  though  you  would  often  in  the 
fifteenth  century  have  heard  the  snobbish  Roman 
say,  in  a  would-be-oil-hand  tone,  '  I  am  dining  with 
the  Borgias  to-night,'  no  Roman  ever  was  able 
to  say  'I  dined  last  night  with  the  Borgias.' 

To  mankind  in  general  Macbeth  and  Lady 
Macbeth  stand  out  as  the  supreme  type  of  all 
that  a  host  and  hostess  should  not  be.  Hence  the 
marked  coolness  of  Scotsmen  towards  Shakespeare, 
hence  the  untiring  efforts  of  that  proud  and  sensi- 
tive race  to  set  up  Burns  in  his  stead.  It  is  a  risky 
thing  to  oif  er  sympathy  to  the  proud  and  sensitive, 
yet  I  must  say  that  I  think  the  Scots  have  a  real 
grievance.  The  two  actual,  historic  Macbeths  were 
no  worse  than  innumerable  other  couples  in  other 
lands  that  had  not  yet  fully  struggled  out  of 
barbarism.  It  is  hard  that  Shakespeare  happened 
on  the  story  of  that  particular  pair,  and  so  made  it 
immortal.  But  he  meant  no  harm,  and  let  Scots- 
men believe  me,  did  positive  good.  Scotch  hos- 
pitality is  proverbial.  As  much  in  Scotland  as  in 
America  does  the  English  visitor  blush  when  he 
thinks  how  perfunctory  and  niggard,  in  comparison, 
English  hospitality  is.  It  was  Scotland  that  first 
formalised  hospitality,  made  of  it  an  exacting  code 
of  honour,  with  the  basic  principle  that  the  guest 
must  in  all  circumstances  be  respected  and  at  all 
costs   protected.     Jacobite   history   bristles   with 


HOSTS  AND  GUESTS  135 

examples  of  the  heroic  sacrifices  made  by  hosts  for 
their  guests,  sacrifices  of  their  own  safety  and 
even  of  their  own  pohtical  convictions,  for  fear  of 
infringing,  however  shghtly,  that  sacred  code  of 
theirs.  And  what  was  the  origin  of  all  this  noble 
pedantry?     Shakespeare's  'Macbeth.' 

Perhaps  if  England  were  a  bleak  and  rugged 
country,  like  Scotland,  or  a  new  country,  like 
America,  the  foreign  visitor  would  be  more  over- 
whelmed with  kindness  here  than  he  is.  The 
landscapes  of  our  country-side  are  so  charming, 
London  abounds  in  public  monuments  so  redolent 
of  history,  so  romantic  and  engrossing,  that  we  are 
perhaps  too  apt  to  think  the  foreign  visitor  would 
have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  sit  dawdling 
in  private  dining-rooms.  Assuredly  there  is  no 
lack  of  hospitable  impulse  among  the  English. 
In  what  may  be  called  mutual  hospitality  they 
touch  a  high  level.  The  French,  also  the  Italians, 
entertain  one  another  far  less  frequently.  In 
England  the  native  guest  has  a  very  good  time 
indeed — though  of  course  he  pays  for  it,  in  some 
measure,  by  acting  as  host  too,  from  time  to  time. 

In  practice,  no,  there  cannot  be  any  absolute 
division  of  mankind  into  my  two  categories,  hosts 
and  guests.  But  psychologically  a  guest  does  not 
cease  to  be  a  guest  when  he  gives  a  dinner,  nor  is  a 
host  not  a  host  when  he  accepts  one.  The  amount  of 
entertaining  that  a  guest  need  do  is  a  matter  wholly 


136  AND  EVEN  NOW 

for  his  own  conscience.  He  will  soon  find  that  he 
does  not  receive  less  hospitality  for  offering  little; 
and  he  would  not  receive  less  if  he  offered  none. 
The  amount  received  by  him  depends  wholly  on 
the  degree  of  his  agreeableness.  Pride  makes  an 
occasional  host  of  him;  but  he  does  not  shine  in 
that  capacity.  Nor  do  hosts  want  him  to  assay  it. 
If  they  accept  an  invitation  from  him,  they  do  so 
only  because  they  wish  not  to  hurt  his  feelings. 
As  guests  they  are  fish  out  of  water. 

Circumstances  do,  of  course,  react  on  character. 
It  is  conventional  for  the  rich  to  give,  and  for  the 
poor  to  receive.  Riches  do  tend  to  foster  in  you 
the  instincts  of  a  host,  and  poverty  does  create  an 
atmosphere  favourable  to  the  growth  of  guestish 
instincts.  But  strong  bents  make  their  own  way. 
Not  all  guests  are  to  be  found  among  the  needy, 
nor  all  hosts  among  the  affluent.  For  sixteen  years 
after  my  education  was,  by  courtesy,  finished — 
from  the  age,  that  is,  of  twenty-two  to  the  age  of 
thirty-eight — I  lived  in  London,  seeing  all  sorts 
of  people  all  the  while;  and  I  came  across  many 
a  rich  man  who,  like  the  master  of  the  shepherd 
Corin,  was  'of  churlish  disposition'  and  little  recked 
'to  find  the  way  to  heaven  by  doing  deeds  of 
hospitality.'  On  the  other  hand,  I  knew  quite 
poor  men  who  were  incorrigibly  hospitable. 

To  such  men,  all  honour.  The  most  I  dare  claim 
for  myself  is  that  if  I  had  been  rich  I  should  have 


HOSTS  AND  GUESTS  137 

been  better  than  Corin's  master.  Even  as  it  was, 
I  did  my  best.  But  I  had  no  authentic  joy  in  doing 
it.  Without  the  spur  of  pride  I  might  conceivably 
have  not  done  it  at  all.  There  recurs  to  me  from 
among  memories  of  my  boyhood  an  episode  that 
is  rather  significant.  In  my  school,  as  in  most 
others,  we  received  now  and  again  '  hampers '  from 
home.  At  the  mid-day  dinner,  in  every  house, 
we  all  ate  together;  but  at  breakfast  and  supper 
we  ate  in  four  or  five  separate  'messes.'  It  was 
customary  for  the  receiver  of  a  hamper  to  share  the 
contents  with  his  mess-mates.  On  one  occasion  I 
received,  instead  of  the  usual  variegated  hamper, 
a  box  containing  twelve  sausage-rolls.  It  happened 
that  when  this  box  arrived  and  was  opened  by  me 
there  was  no  one  around.  Of  sausage-rolls  I  was 
particularly  fond.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  carried 
the  box  up  to  my  cubicle,  and,  having  eaten  two 
of  the  sausage-rolls,  said  nothing  to  my  friends, 
that  day,  about  the  other  ten,  nor  anything  about 
them  when,  three  days  later,  I  had  eaten  them  all 
— all,  up  there,  alone. 

Thirty  years  have  elapsed,  my  school-fellows  are 
scattered  far  and  wide,  the  chance  that  this  page 
may  meet  the  eyes  of  some  of  them  does  not  much 
dismay  me;  but  I  am  glad  there  was  no  collective 
and  contemporary  judgment  by  them  on  my 
strange  exploit.  What  defence  could  I  have 
offered.'^     Suppose  I  had  said  'You  see,  I  am  so 


138  AND  EVEN  NOW 

essentially  a  guest,'  the  plea  would  have  carried 
little  weight.  And  yet  it  would  not  have  been  a 
worthless  plea.  On  receipt  of  a  hamper,  a  boy  did 
rise,  always,  in  the  esteem  of  his  mess-mates. 
His  sardines,  his  marmalade,  his  potted  meat, 
at  any  rate  while  they  lasted,  did  make  us  think 
that  his  parents  'must  be  awfully  decent'  and 
that  he  was  a  not  unworthy  son.  He  had  become 
our  central  figure,  we  expected  him  to  lead  the 
conversation,  we  liked  listening  to  him,  his  jokes 
were  good.  With  those  twelve  sausage-rolls  I  could 
have  dominated  my  fellows  for  a  while.  But  I  had 
not  a  dominant  nature.  I  never  trusted  myself 
as  a  leader.  Leading  abashed  me.  I  was  happiest 
in  the  comity  of  the  crowd.  Having  received  a 
hamper,  I  was  always  glad  when  it  was  finished, 
glad  to  fall  back  into  the  ranks.  Humility  Is  a 
virtue,  and  it  is  a  virtue  Innate  In  guests. 

Boys  (as  will  have  been  surmised  from  my  record 
of  the  effect  of  hampers)  are  all  of  them  potential 
guests.  It  is  only  as  they  grow  up  that  some  of 
them  harden  Into  hosts.  It  is  likely  enough  that  if 
I,  when  I  grew  up,  had  been  rich,  my  natural  bent 
to  guestship  would  have  been  diverted,  and  I  too 
have  become  a  (sort  of)  host.  And  perhaps  I 
should  have  passed  muster.  I  suppose  I  did  pass 
muster  whenever,  in  the  course  of  my  long  residence 
in  London,  I  did  entertain  friends.  But  the  memory 
of  those  occasions  is  not  dear  to  me — especially  not 


HOSTS  AND  GUESTS  139 

the  memory  of  those  that  were  in  the  more  dis- 
tinguished restaurants.  Somewhere  in  the  back  of 
my  brain,  while  I  tried  to  lead  the  conversation 
brightly,  was  always  the  haunting  fear  that  I  had 
not  brought  enough  money  in  my  pocket.  I  never 
let  this  fear  master  me.  I  never  said  to  any  one 
'Will  you  have  a  liqueur.'^' — always  'What  liqueur 
will  you  have? '  But  I  postponed  as  far  as  possible 
the  evil  moment  of  asking  for  the  bill.  When  I 
had,  in  the  proper  casual  tone  (I  hope  and  believe), 
at  length  asked  for  it,  I  wished  always  it  were  not 
brought  to  me  folded  on  a  plate,  as  though  the 
amount  were  so  hideously  high  that  I  alone  must  be 
privy  to  it.  So  soon  as  it  was  laid  beside  me,  I 
wanted  to  know  the  worst  at  once.  But  I  pretended 
to  be  so  occupied  in  talk  that  I  was  unaware  of  the 
bill's  presence;  and  I  was  careful  to  be  always 
in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  when  I  raised  the  upper 
fold  and  took  my  not  (I  hope)  frozen  glance. 
In  point  of  fact,  the  amount  was  always  much  less 
than  I  had  feared.  Pessimism  does  win  us  great 
happy  moments. 

Meals  in  the  restaurants  of  Soho  tested  less 
severely  the  pauper  guest  masquerading  as  host. 
But  to  them  one  could  not  ask  rich  persons — nor 
even  poor  persons  unless  one  knew  them  very  well. 
Soho  is  so  uncertain  that  the  fare  is  often  not  good 
enough  to  be  palmed  off  on  even  one's  poorest 
and  oldest  friends.     A  very  magnetic  host,  with  a 


140  AND  EVEN  NOW 

great  gift  for  bluffing,  might,  no  doubt,  even  in 
Solio's  worst  moments,  diffuse  among  his  guests  a 
conviction  that  all  was  of  the  best.  But  I  never 
was  good  at  bluffing.  I  had  always  to  let  food 
speak  for  itself.  'It's  cheap'  was  the  only  paean 
that  in  Soho's  bad  moments  ever  occurred  to  me, 
and  this  of  course  I  did  not  utter.  And  ivas  it  so 
cheap,  after  all?  Soho  induces  a  certain  optimism. 
A  bill  there  was  always  larger  than  I  had  thought  it 
would  be. 

Every  one,  even  the  richest  and  most  munificent 
of  men,  pays  much  by  cheque  more  light-heartedly 
than  he  pays  little  in  specie.  In  restaurants  I 
should  have  liked  always  to  give  cheques.  But  in 
any  restaurant  I  was  so  much  more  often  seen  as 
guest  than  as  host  that  I  never  felt  sure  the  pro- 
prietor would  trust  me.  Only  in  my  club  did  I 
know  the  luxury,  or  rather  the  painlessness,  of 
entertaining  by  cheque.  A  cheque — especially  if  it 
is  a  club  cheque,  as  supplied  for  the  use  of  members, 
not  a  leaf  torn  out  of  his  own  book — makes  so 
little  mark  on  any  man's  imagination.  He  dashes 
off  some  words  and  figures,  he  signs  his  name  (with 
that  vague  momentary  pleasure  which  the  sight  of 
his  own  signature  anywhere  gives  him),  he  walks 
away  and  forgets.  Offering  hospitality  in  my  club, 
I  was  inwardly  calm.  But  even  there  I  did  not 
glow  (though  my  face  and  manner,  I  hoped, 
glowed) .  If  my  guest  was  by  nature  a  guest,  I  man- 


HOSTS  AND  GUESTS  141 

aged  to  forget  somewhat  that  I  myself  was  a  guest 
by  nature.  But  if,  as  now  and  then  happened,  my 
guest  was  a  true  and  habitual  host,  I  did  feel  that 
we  were  in  an  absurdly  false  relation;  and  it  was 
not  without  difficulty  that  I  could  restrain  myself 
from  saying  to  him  'This  is  all  very  well,  you  know 
but — frankly:  your  place  is  at  the  head  of  your 
own  table.' 

The  host  as  guest  is  far,  far  worse  than  the  guest 
as  host.  He  never  even  passes  muster.  The  guest, 
in  virtue  of  a  certain  hability  that  is  part  of  his 
natural  equipment,  can  more  or  less  ape  the  ways 
of  a  host.  But  the  host,  with  his  more  positive 
temperament,  does  not  even  attempt  the  graces  of 
a  guest.  By  'graces'  I  do  not  mean  to  imply 
anything  artificial.  The  guest's  manners  are, 
rather,  as  wild  flowers  springing  from  good  rich 
soil — the  soil  of  genuine  modesty  and  gratitude. 
He  honourably  wishes  to  please  in  return  for  the 
pleasure  he  is  receiving.  He  wonders  that  people 
should  be  so  kind  to  him,  and,  without  knowing  it, 
is  very  kind  to  them.  But  the  host,  as  I  said  earlier 
in  this  essay,  is  a  guest  against  his  own  will.  That 
is  the  root  of  the  mischief.  He  feels  that  it  is  more 
blessed,  etc.,  and  that  he  is  conferring  rather  than 
accepting  a  favour.  He  does  not  adjust  himself. 
He  forgets  his  place.  He  leads  the  conversation. 
He  tries  genially  to  draw  you  out.  He  never 
comments  on  the  goodness  of  the  food  or  wine. 


142  AND  EVEN  NOW 

He  looks  at  his  watch  abruptly  and  says  he  must  be 
off.  He  doesn't  say  he  has  had  a  delightful  time. 
In  fact,  his  place  is  at  the  head  of  his  own  table. 

His  own  table,  over  his  own  cellar,  under  his  own 
roof — it  is  only  there  that  you  see  him  at  his  best. 
To  a  club  or  restaurant  he  may  sometimes  invite 
you,  but  not  there,  not  there,  my  child,  do  you  get 
the  full  savour  of  his  quality.  In  life  or  literature 
there  has  been  no  better  host  than  Old  Wardle. 
Appalling  though  he  would  have  been  as  a  guest  in 
club  or  restaurant,  it  is  hardly  less  painful  to  think 
of  him  as  a  host  there.  At  Dingley  Dell,  with  an 
ample  gesture,  he  made  you  free  of  all  that  was 
his.  He  could  not  have  given  you  a  club  or  a 
restaurant.  Nor,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
did  he  give  you  Dingley  Dell.  The  place  remained 
his.  None  knew  better  than  Old  Wardle  that  this 
was  so.  Hospitality,  as  we  have  agreed,  is  not  one 
of  the  most  deep-rooted  instincts  in  man,  whereas 
the  sense  of  possession  certainly  is.  Not  even  Old 
Wardle  was  a  communist.  'This,'  you  may  be 
sure  he  said  to  himself,  'is  my  roof,  these  are  my 
horses,  that's  a  picture  of  my  dear  old  grandfather.' 
And  'This,'  he  would  say  to  us,  'is  my  roof:  sleep 
soundly  under  it.  These  are  my  horses :  ride  them. 
That's  a  portrait  of  my  dear  old  grandfather :  have  a 
good  look  at  it.'  But  he  did  not  ask  us  to  walk  off 
with  any  of  these  things.  Not  even  what  he 
actually  did  give  us  would  he  regard  as  having 


HOSTS  AND  GUESTS  143 

passed  out  of  his  possession.  'That,'  he  would 
muse  if  we  were  torpid  after  dinner,  'is  my  roast 
beef,'  and  'That,'  if  we  staggered  on  the  way  to 
bed,  'is  viy  cold  milk  punch.'  'But  surely,'  you 
interrupt  me,  'to  give  and  then  not  feel  that  one 
has  given  is  the  very  best  of  all  ways  of  giving.' 
I  agree.  I  hope  you  didn't  think  I  was  trying  to 
disparage  Old  Wardle.  I  was  merely  keeping  my 
promise  to  point  out  that  from  among  the  motives 
of  even  the  best  hosts  pride  and  egoism  are  not 
absent. 

Every  virtue,  as  we  were  taught  in  youth,  is  a 
mean  between  two  extremes;  and  I  think  any 
virtue  is  the  better  understood  by  us  if  we  glance 
at  the  vice  on  either  side  of  it.  I  take  it  that  the 
virtue  of  hospitality  stands  midway  between 
churlishness  and  mere  ostentation.  Far  to  the  left 
of  the  good  host  stands  he  who  doesn't  want  to  see 
anything  of  any  one;  far  to  the  right,  he  who  wants 
a  horde  of  people  to  be  always  seeing  something 
of  him.  I  conjecture  that  the  figure  on  the  left, 
just  discernible  through  my  field-glasses,  is  that  of 
old  Corin's  master.  His  name  was  never  revealed 
to  us,  but  Corin's  brief  account  of  his  character 
suflices.  'Deeds  of  hospitality'  is  a  dismal  phrase 
that  could  have  occurred  only  to  the  servant  of  a 
very  dismal  master.  Not  less  tell-tale  is  Corin's 
idea  that  men  who  do  these  'deeds'  do  them  only 
to  save  their  souls  in  the  next  world.     It  is  a  pity 


144  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Shakespeare  did  not  actually  bring  Corin's  master 
on  to  the  stage.  One  would  have  liked  to  see  the 
old  man  genuinely  touched  by  the  charming  elo- 
quence of  Rosalind's  appeal  for  a  crust  of  bread, 
and  conscious  that  he  would  probably  go  to  heaven 
if  he  granted  it,  and  yet  not  quite  able  to  grant  it. 
Far  away  though  he  stands  to  the  left  of  the  good 
host,  he  has  yet  something  in  common  with  that 
third  person  discernible  on  the  right — that  speck 
yonder,  which  I  believe  to  be  Lucullus.  Nothing 
that  we  know  of  Lucullus  suggests  that  he  was  less 
inhuman  than  the  churl  of  Arden.  It  does  not 
appear  that  he  had  a  single  friend,  nor  that  he 
wished  for  one.  His  lavishness  was  indiscriminate 
except  in  that  he  entertained  only  the  rich.  One 
would  have  liked  to  dine  with  him,  but  not  even  in 
the  act  of  digestion  could  one  have  felt  that  he  had 
a  heart.  One  would  have  acknowledged  that  in  all 
the  material  resources  of  his  art  he  was  a  master, 
and  also  that  he  practised  his  art  for  sheer  love  of  it, 
wishing  to  be  admired  for  nothing  but  his  mastery, 
and  cocking  no  eye  on  any  of  those  ulterior  objects 
but  for  which  some  of  the  most  prominent  hosts 
would  not  entertain  at  all.  But  the  very  fact  that 
he  was  an  artist  is  repulsive.  When  hospitality 
becomes  an  art  it  loses  its  very  soul.  With  this 
reflection  I  look  away  from  Lucullus  and,  fixing  my 
gaze  on  the  middle  ground,  am  the  better  able  to 
appreciate  the  excellence  of  the  figure  that  stands 


HOSTS  AND  GUESTS  145 

before  me — the  figure  of  Old  Wardle.  Some  pride 
and  egoism  in  that  capacious  breast,  yes,  but  a 
great  heart  full  of  kindness,  and  ever  a  warm 
spontaneous  welcome  to  the  stranger  in  need, 
and  to  all  old  friends  and  young.  Hark!  he  is 
shouting  something.  He  is  asking  us  both  down  to 
Dingley  Dell.  And  you  have  shouted  back  that 
you  will  be  delighted.  Ah,  did  I  not  suspect  from 
the  first  that  you  too  were  perhaps  a  guest? 

But  I  constrain  you  in  the  act  of  rushing  off  to 
pack  your  things — one  moment :  this  essay  has  yet 
to  be  finished.  We  have  yet  to  glance  at  those 
two  extremes  between  which  the  mean  is  good 
guestship.  Far  to  the  right  of  the  good  guest,  we 
descry  the  parasite;  far  to  the  left,  the  churl  again. 
Not  the  same  churl,  perhaps.  We  do  not  know  that 
Corin's  master  was  ever  sampled  as  a  guest.  I  am 
inclined  to  call  yonder  speck  Dante — Dante  Ali- 
ghieri,  of  whom  we  do  know  that  he  received  during 
his  exile  much  hospitality  from  many  hosts  and 
repaid  them  by  writing  how  bitter  was  the  bread 
in  their  houses,  and  how  steep  the  stairs  were.  To 
think  of  dour  Dante  as  a  guest  is  less  dispiriting 
only  than  to  think  what  he  would  have  been  as  a 
host  had  it  ever  occurred  to  him  to  entertain 
any  one  or  anything  except  a  deep  regard  for 
Beatrice;  and  one  turns  with  positive  relief  to 
have  a  glimpse  of  the  parasite — Mr.  Smurge,  I 
presume,  *  whose  gratitude  was  as  boundless  as  his 


146  AND  EVEN  NOW 

appetite,  and  his  presence  as  unsought  as  it  ap- 
peared to  be  inevitable.'  But  now,  how  gracious 
and  admirable  is  the  central  figure — radiating 
gratitude,  but  not  too  much  of  it;  never  intrusive, 
ever  within  call;  full  of  dignity,  yet  all  amenable; 
quiet,  yet  lively;  never  echoing,  ever  amplifying; 
never  contradicting,  but  often  lighting  the  way  to 
truth;   an  ornament,  an  inspiration,  anywhere. 

Such  is  he.  But  who  is  he.'^  It  is  easier  to  con- 
fess a  defect  than  to  claim  a  quality.  I  have  told 
you  that  when  I  lived  in  London  I  was  nothing  as  a 
host;  but  I  will  not  claim  to  have  been  a  perfect 
guest.  Nor  indeed  was  I.  I  was  a  good  one,  but, 
looking  back,  I  see  myself  not  quite  in  the  centre — 
slightly  to  the  left,  slightly  to  the  churlish  side. 
I  was  rather  too  quiet,  and  I  did  sometimes  con- 
tradict. And,  though  I  always  liked  to  be  invited 
anywhere,  I  very  often  preferred  to  stay  at  home. 
If  any  one  hereafter  shall  form  a  collection  of  the 
notes  written  by  me  in  reply  to  invitations,  I  am 
afraid  he  will  gradually  suppose  me  to  have  been 
more  in  request  than  ever  I  really  was,  and  to  have 
been  also  a  great  invalid,  and  a  great  traveller. 


A   POINT  TO   BE   REMEMBERED   BY 
VERY  EMINENT  MEN 


A   POINT  TO   BE   REMEMBERED   BY 
VERY  EMINENT  MEN 

1918. 

ONE  of  the  things  a  man  best  remembers  in 
later  years  is  the  first  time  he  set  eyes  on 
some  illustrious  elder  whose  achievements 
had  already  inflamed  him  to  special  reverence. 
In  almost  every  autobiography  you  will  find  re- 
corded the  thrill  of  that  first  sight.  With  the 
thrill,  perhaps,  there  was  a  slight  shock.  Great 
men  are  but  life-sized.  Most  of  them,  indeed,  are 
rather  short.  No  matter  to  hero-worshipping 
youth.  The  shock  did  but  swell  the  thrill.  It  did 
but  enlarge  the  wonder  that  this  was  the  man 

himself,  the  man  who 

I  was  about  to  say  *who  had  written  those  in- 
spired books.'  You  see,  the  autobiographists  are 
usually  people  with  an  innate  twist  towards  writing, 
people  whose  heroes,  therefore,  were  men  of  letters; 
and  thus  (especially  as  I  myself  have  that  twist) 
I  am  apt  to  think  of  literary  hero-worship  as 
flourishing  more  than  could  any  other  kind.  I 
must  try  to  be  less  narrow.  At  first  sight  of  the 
Lord  Chancellor,  doubtless,  unforgettable  emotions 

149 


150  AND  EVEN  NOW 

rise  in  the  breast  of  a  young  man  who  has  felt  from 
his  earliest  years  the  passionate  desire  to  be  a 
lawyer.  One  whose  dream  it  is  to  excel  in  trade 
will  have  been  profoundly  stirred  at  finding  himself 
face  to  face  with  Sir  Thomas  Lipton.  At  least, 
I  suppose  so.  I  speak  without  conviction.  I  am 
inclined,  after  all,  to  think  that  there  is  in  the 
literary  temperament  a  special  sensibility,  whereby 
these  great  first  envisagements  mean  more  to  it 
than  to  natures  of  a  more  practical  kind.  So  it  is 
primarily  to  men  very  eminent  in  literature  that  I 
venture  to  offer  a  hint  for  making  those  envisage- 
ments as  great  as  possible. 

The  hint  will  serve  only  in  certain  cases.  There 
are  various  ways  in  which  a  young  man  may  chance 
to  see  his  hero  for  the  first  time.  'One  wintry 
afternoon,  not  long  after  I  came  to  London,'  the 
autobiographist  will  tell  you,  '  I  happened  to  be  in 
Cheyne  Walk,  bent  on  I  know  not  what  errand, 
when  I  saw  coming  slowly  along  the  pavement  an 
old  grey -bearded  man.  He  wore  a  hat  of  the  kind 
that  was  called  in  those  days  a  "wide-awake," 
and  he  leaned  heavily  on  a  stick  which  he  carried 
in  his  right  hand.  I  stood  reverently  aside  to  let 
him  pass — the  man  who  had  first  taught  me  to  see, 
to  feel,  to  think.  Yes,  it  was  Thomas  Carlyle; 
and  as  he  went  by  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor 
to  the  left,  my  heart  stood  still  within  me.  What 
struck  me  most  in  that  thought-furrowed  face  was 


A  POINT  TO  BE  REMEMBERED     151 

the  eyes.  I  laad  never,  I  have  never  since,  seen  a 
pair  of  eyes  which,'  etc.,  etc.  This  is  well  enough, 
and  I  don't  say  that  the  writer  has  exaggerated  the 
force  of  the  impression  he  received.  I  say  merely 
that  the  impression  would  have  been  stronger  still 
if  he  had  seen  Carlyle  in  a  room.  The  open  air  is 
not  really  a  good  setting  for  a  hero.  It  is  too  diffuse. 
It  is  too  impersonal.  Four  walls,  a  ceiling,  and  a 
floor — these  things  are  needed  to  concentrate  for 
the  worshipper  the  vision  vouchsafed.  Even  if  the 
room  be  a  public  one — a  waiting-room,  say,  at 
Clapham  Junction — it  is  very  helpful.  Far  more 
so  if  it  be  a  room  in  a  private  house,  where,  besides 
the  vision  itself,  is  thrust  on  the  worshipper  the 
dizzy  sense  of  a  personal  relationship. 

Dip  with  me,  for  an  example,  into  some  other 
autobiography  .  .  .  Here:  'Shortly  after  I  came 
to  London' — it  is  odd  that  autobiographists  never 
are  born  or  bred  there — '  one  of  the  houses  I  found 

open  to  me  was  that  of  Mrs.  T ,  a  woman  whom 

(so  it  seemed  to  me  when  in  later  years  I  studied 
Italian)  the  word  sim'patica  described  exactly,  and 
who,  as  the  phrase  is,  "knew  everybody."  Call- 
ing on  her  one  Sunday  afternoon,  I  noticed  among 
the  guests,  as  I  came  in,  a  short,  stalwart  man  with 
a  grey  beard.  "I  particularly,"  my  hostess  whis- 
pered to  me,  "want  you  to  know  Mr.  Robert 
Browning."  Everything  in  the  room  seemed  to 
swim  round  me,  and  I  had  the  sensation  of  literally 


152  AND  EVEN  NOW 

sinking  through  the  carpet  when  presently  I  found 
my  hand  held  for  a  moment — it  was  only  a  moment, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  an  eternity — by  the  hand  that 
had  written  "Paracelsus."  I  had  a  confused  im- 
pression of  something  godlike  about  the  man.  His 
brow  was  magnificent.  But  the  eyes  were  what 
stood  out.  Not  that  they  were  prominent  eyes, 
but  they  seemed  to  look  you  through  and  through, 
and  had  a  lustre — there  is  no  other  word  for  it — 
which,'  I  maintain,  would  have  been  far  less  daz- 
zling out  in  the  street,  just  as  the  world-sadness  of 
Carlyle's  eyes  would  have  been  twice  as  harrowing 
in  Mrs.  T — — 's  drawing-room. 

But  even  there  neither  of  those  pairs  of  eyes  could 
have  made  its  fullest  effect.  The  most  terrifically 
gratifying  way  of  seeing  one's  hero  and  his  eyes 
for  the  first  time  is  to  see  them  in  his  own  home. 
Anywhere  else,  believe  me,  something  of  his  essence 
is  forfeit.  'The  rose  of  roses'  loses  more  or  less 
of  its  beauty  in  any  vase,  and  rather  more  than  less 
there   in   a   nosegay   of   ordinary   little   blossoms 

(to  which  I  rather  rudely  liken  Mrs.  T 's  other 

friends).  I'he  supreme  flower  should  be  first  seen 
growing  from  its  own  Sharonian  soil. 

The  worshipper  should  have,  therefore,  a  letter 
of  introduction.  Failing  that,  he  should  write  a 
letter  introducing  himself — a  fervid,  an  idolatrous 
letter,  not  without  some  excuse  for  the  writing  of  it : 
the  hero's  seventieth  birthday,  for  instance,  or  a 


A  POINT  TO  BE  REMEMBERED       153 

desire  for  light  on  some  obscure  point  in  one  of  his 
earlier  works.  Heroes  are  very  human,  most  of 
them;  very  easily  touched  by  praise.  Some  of 
them,  however,  are  bad  at  answering  letters.  The 
worshipper  must  not  scruple  to  write  repeatedly, 
if  need  be.  Sooner  or  later  he  will  be  summoned 
to  the  presence.  This,  perhaps,  will  entail  a 
railway  journey.  Heroes  tend  to  live  a  little  way 
out  of  London.  So  much  the  better.  The  ad- 
venture should  smack  of  pilgrimage.  Consider 
also  that  a  house  in  a  London  street  cannot  seem  so 
signally  its  owner's  own  as  can  a  house  in  a  village 
or  among  fields.  The  one  kind  contains  him,  the 
other  enshrines  him,  breathes  of  him.  The  sight 
of  it,  after  a  walk  (there  should  be  a  longish  walk) 
from  the  railway  station,  strikes  great  initial  chords 
in  the  worshipper;  and  the  smaller  the  house,  the 
greater  the  chords.  The  worshipper  pauses  at  the 
gate  of  the  little  front-garden,  and  when  he  writes 
his  autobiography  those  chords  will  be  reverberat- 
ing yet.  '  Here  it  was  that  the  greatest  of  modern 
spirits  had  lived  and  wrought.  Here  in  the  full- 
ness of  years  he  abode.  With  I  know  not  what 
tumult  of  thoughts  I  passed  up  the  path  and  rang 
the  bell.  A  bright-faced  parlourmaid  showed  me 
into  a  room  on  the  ground-floor,  and  said  she  would 
tell  the  master  I  was  here.  It  was  a  wonderfully 
simple  room ;  and  something,  perhaps  the  writing- 
table,  told  me  it  was  his  work-room,  the  very  room 


154  AND  EVEN  NOW 

from  which,  in  the  teeth  of  the  world's  neglect  and 
misunderstanding,  he  had  cast  his  spell  over  the 
minds  of  all  thinking  men  and  women.  When 
I  had  waited  a  few  minutes,  the  door  opened  and' 
after  that  the  deluge  of  what  was  felt  when  the  very 
eminent  man  came  in. 

Came  in,  mark  you.  That  is  a  vastly  important 
point.  Had  the  very  eminent  man  been  there  at 
the  outset,  the  worshipper's  first  sight  of  him  would 
have  been  a  very  great  moment,  certainly;  but  not 
nearly  so  great  as  in  fact  it  was.  Very  eminent 
men  should  always,  on  these  occasions,  come  in. 
That  is  the  point  I  ask  them  to  remember. 

Honourably  concerned  with  large  high  issues, 
they  are  not  students  of  personal  effect.  I  must 
therefore  explain  to  them  why  it  is  more  impressive 
to  come  into  a  room  than  to  be  found  there. 

Let  those  of  them  who  have  been  playgoers  cast 
their  minds  back  to  their  experience  of  theatres. 
Can  they  recall  a  single  play  in  which  the  principal 
actor  was  'discovered'  sitting  or  standing  on  the 
stage  when  the  curtain  rose?  No.  The  actor, 
by  the  very  nature  of  his  calling,  does,  must,  study 
personal  effect.  No  playwright  would  dare  to 
dump  down  his  principal  actor  at  the  outset  of  a 
play.  No  sensible  playwright  would  wish  to  do  so. 
That  actor's  personality  is  a  part  of  the  play- 
wright's material.  Playwriting,  it  has  been  well 
said,  is  an  art  of  preparing.     The  principal  actor 


A  POINT  TO  BE  REMEMBERED       155 

is  one  of  the  things  for  which  we  must  be  artfully 
prepared.  Note  Shakespeare's  carefulness  in  this 
matter.  In  his  clay,  the  stage  had  no  curtain,  so 
that  even  the  obscure  actor  who  spoke  the  first 
lines  (Shakespeare  himself  sometimes,  maybe)  was 
not  ignominiously  'discovered.'  But  an  unpre- 
pared entry  is  no  good.  The  audience  must  first 
be  wrought  on,  wrought  up.  Had  Shakespeare  been 
also  Burbage,  it  is  possible  that  he  would  have  been 
even  more  painstaking  than  he  was  in  leading. up 
to  the  leading  man.  Assuredly,  by  far  the  most 
tremendous  stage  entries  I  ever  saw  were  those  of 
Mr.  Wilson  Barrett  in  his  later  days,  the  days  when 
he  had  become  his  own  dramatist.  I  remember 
particularly  a  first  night  of  his  at  which  I  happened 
to  be  sitting  next  to  a  clever  but  not  very  successful 
and  rather  sardonic  old  actor.  I  forget  just  what 
great  historic  or  mythic  personage  Mr.  Barrett  was 
to  represent,  but  I  know  that  the  earlier  scenes  of 
the  play  resounded  with  rumours  of  him — accounts 
of  the  great  deeds  he  had  done,  and  of  the  yet 
greater  deeds  that  were  expected  of  him.  And  at 
length  there  was  a  procession:  white-bearded 
priests  bearing  wands;  maidens  playing  upon  the 
sackbut;  guards  in  full  armour;  a  pell-mell  of 
unofficial  citizens  ever  prancing  along  the  edge  of 
the  pageant,  huzza-ing  and  hosanna-ing,  mostly 
looking  back  over  their  shoulders  and  shading 
their  eyes;   maidens  strewing  rose-leaves;    and  at 


156  AND  E\1SN  NOW 

last  the  orchestra  crashing  to  a  cHmax  in  the  nick 
of  which  my  neighbour  turned  to  me  and,  with 
an  assumption  of  innocent  enthusiasm,  whispered, 
'I  shouldn't  wonder  if  this  were  Barrett.'  I 
suppose  (Mr,  Barrett  at  that  instant  amply  ap- 
pearing) I  gave  way  to  laughter;  but  this  didn't 
matter;  the  applause  would  have  drowned  a 
thunderstorm,  and  lasted  for  several  minutes. 

My  very  eminent  reader  begins  to  look  un- 
comfortable. Let  him  take  heart.  I  do  not  want 
him  to  tamper  with  the  simplicity  of  his  household 
arrangements.  Not  even  the  one  bright-faced 
parlourmaid  need  precede  him  with  strewn  petals. 
All  the  necessary  preparation  will  have  been  done 
by  the  bare  fact  that  this  is  his  room,  and  that  he 
will  presently  appear.  'But,'  he  may  say,  with  a 
toss  of  his  grey  beard,  'I  am  not  going  to  practise 
any  device  whatsoever.  I  am  above  devices. 
I  shall  be  in  the  room  when  the  young  man  arrives.' 
I  assure  him  that  I  am  not  appealing  to  his  vanity, 
merely  to  his  good-nature.  Let  him  remember  that 
he  too  was  young  once,  he  too  thrilled  in  harmless 
hero-worship.  Let  him  not  grudge  the  young  man 
an  utmost  emotion. 

Coming  into  a  room  that  contains  a  stranger  is  a 
definite  performance,  a  deed  of  which  one  is  con- 
scious— if  one  be  young,  and  if  that  stranger  be 
august.  Not  to  come  in  awkwardly,  not  to  make  a 
bad  impression,  is  here  the  paramount  concern. 


A  POINT  TO  BE  REMEMBERED       157 

The  mind  of  the  young  man  as  he  comes  in  is 
clogged  with  thoughts  of  self.  It  is  free  of  these 
impediments  if  he  shall  have  been  waiting  alone 
in  the  room.  To  be  come  in  to  is  a  thing  that  needs 
no  art  and  induces  no  embarrassment.  One's  whole 
attention  is  focussed  on  the  comer-in.  One  is  the 
mere  spectator,  the  passive  and  receptive  receiver. 
And  even  supposing  that  the  young  man  could  come 
in  under  his  hero's  gaze  without  a  thought  of  self, 
his  first  vision  would  yet  lack  the  right  intensity. 
A  person  found  in  a  room,  if  it  be  a  room  strange 
to  the  arriver,  does  not  instantly  detach  himself 
from  his  surroundings.  He  is  but  a  feature  of  the 
scene.  He  does  not  stand  out  as  against  a  back- 
ground, in  the  grand  manner  of  portraiture,  but 
is  fused  as  in  an  elaborately  rendered  'interior.' 
It  is  all  the  more  essential,  therefore,  that  the 
worshipper  shall  not  have  his  first  sight  of  hero 
and  room  simultaneously.  The  room  must,  as  it 
were,  be  an  anteroom,  anon  converted  into  a 
presence-chamber  by  the  hero's  entry.  And  let 
not  the  hero  be  in  any  fear  that  he  will  bungle 
his  entry.  He  has  but  to  make  it.  The  effect  is 
automatic.  He  will  stand  out  by  merely  coming  in. 
I  would  but  suggest  that  he  must  not,  be  he  never 
so  hale  and  hearty,  bounce  in.  The  young  man 
must  not  be  startled.  If  the  mountain  had  come  to 
Mahomet,  it  would,  we  may  be  sure,  have  come 
slowly,  that  the  prophet  should  have  time  to  realise 


158  AND  EVEN  NOW 

the  grandeur  of  the  miracle.  Let  the  hero  re- 
member that  his  coming,  too,  will  seem  super- 
natural to  the  young  man.  Let  him  be  framed  for 
an  instant  or  so  in  the  doorway — time  for  his  eyes 
to  produce  their  peculiar  effect.  And  by  the 
way:  if  he  be  a  wearer  of  glasses,  he  should  cer- 
tainly remove  these  before  coming  in.  He  can  put 
them  on  again  almost  immediately.  It  is  the  first 
moment  that  matters. 

As  to  how  long  an  interval  the  hero  should  let 
elapse  between  the  young  man's  arrival  and  his 
own  entry,  I  cannot  offer  any  very  exact  advice. 
I  should  say,  roughly,  that  in  ten  minutes  the  young 
man  would  be  strung  up  to  the  right  pitch,  and 
that  more  than  twenty  minutes  would  be  too  much. 
It  is  important  that  expectancy  shall  have  worked 
on  him  to  the  full,  but  it  is  still  more  important 
that  his  mood  shall  not  have  been  chafed  to  impa- 
tience. The  danger  of  over-long  delay  is  well  ex- 
emplified in  the  sad  case  of  young  Coventry  Pat- 
more.  In  his  old  age  Patmore  wrote  to  Mr.  Gosse  a 
description  of  a  visit  he  had  paid,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  to  Leigh  Hunt;  and  you  will  find  the 
letter  on  page  32,  vol.  I,  of  Mr.  Basil  Champneys' 
biography  of  him.  The  circumstances  had  been 
most  propitious.  The  eager  and  sensitive  spirit  of 
the  young  man,  his  intense  admiration  for  'The 
Story  of  Rimini,'  the  letter  of  introduction  from  his 
father  to  the  venerable  poet  and  friend  of  greater 


A  POINT  TO  BE  REMEMBERED       159 

bygone  poets,  the  long  walk  to  Hammersmith,  the 
small  house  in  a  square  there — all  was  classically 
in  order.  The  poet  was  at  home.  The  visitor  was 
shown  in.  ...  'I  had,'  he  was  destined  to  tell 
Mr.  Gosse,  'waited  in  the  little  parlour  at  least 
two  hours,  when  the  door  was  opened  and  a  most 
picturesque  gentleman,  with  hair  flowing  nearly  or 
quite  to  his  shoulders,  a  beautiful  velvet  coat  and 
a  Vandyck  collar  of  lace  about  a  foot  deep,  ap- 
peared, rubbing  his  hands,  and  smiling  ethereally, 
and  saying,  without  a  word  of  preface  or  notice  of 
my  having  waited  so  long,  "This  is  a  beautiful 
world,  Mr.  Patmore!"  '  The  young  man  was  so 
taken  aback  by  these  words  that  they  'eclipsed  all 
memory  of  what  occurred  during  the  remainder 
of  the  visit.' 

Yet  there  was  nothing  wrong  about  the  words 
themselves.  Indeed,  to  any  one  with  any  sense 
of  character  and  any  knowledge  of  Le'gh  Hunt, 
they  must  seem  to  have  been  exactly,  exquisitely, 
inevitably  the  right  vv^ords.  But  they  should  have 
been  said  sooner. 


SERVANTS 


SERVANTS 

1918. 

IT  is  unseemly  that  a  man  should  let  any  an- 
cestors of  his  arise  from  their  graves  to  wait 
on  his  guests  at  table.  The  Chinese  are  a 
poHte  race,  and  those  of  them  who  have  visited 
England,  and  gone  to  dine  in  great  English  houses, 
will  not  have  made  this  remark  aloud  to  their 
hosts.  I  believe  it  is  only  their  own  ancestors 
that  they  worship,  so  that  they  will  not  have  felt 
themselves  guilty  of  impiety  in  not  rising  rom 
the  table  and  rushing  out  into  the  night.  Never- 
theless, they  must  have  been  shocked. 

The  French  Revolution,  judged  according  to  the 
hope  it  was  made  in,  must  be  pronounced  a  failure: 
it  effected  no  fundamental  change  in  human  nature. 
But  it  was  by  no  means  wholly  ineffectual.  For 
example,  ladies  and  gentlemen  ceased  to  powder 
their  hair,  because  of  it;  and  gentlemen  adopted 
simpler  costumes.  This  was  so  in  England  as  well 
as  in  France.  But  in  England  ladies  and  gentle- 
men were  not  so  nimble-witted  as  to  be  able  to 
conceive  the  possibility  of  a  world  without  powder. 
Powder  had  been  sent  down  from  heaven,  and  must 

163 


164  AND  EVEN  NOW 

not  vanish  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  Said  Sir 
John  to  his  lady,  '  'Tis  a  matter  easy  to  settle. 
Your  maid  Deborah  and  the  rest  of  the  wenches 
shall  powder  their  hair  henceforth.'  Whereat  his 
Lady  exclaimed  in  wrath,  'Lud,  Sir  John!  Have 
you  taken  leave  of  your  senses?  A  parcel  of 
Abigails  flaunting  about  the  house  in  powder 
— oh,  preposterous ! '  Whereat  Sir  John  exclaimed 
'Zounds!'  and  hotly  demonstrated  that  since  his 
wife  had  given  up  powder  there  could  be  no  harm 
in  its  assumption  by  her  maids.  Whereat  his 
Lady  screamed  and  had  the  vapours  and  asked 
how  he  would  like  to  see  his  own  footmen  flaunting 
about  the  house  in  powder.  Whereat  he  (always 
a  reasonable  man,  despite  his  hasty  temper)  went 
out  and  told  his  footmen  to  wear  powder  hence- 
forth. And  in  this  they  obeyed  him.  And  there 
arose  a  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  saying,  'Let  powder 
be  taxed,'  And  it  was  so,  and  the  tax  was  paid, 
and  powder  was  still  worn.  And  there  came  the 
great  Reform  Bill,  and  the  Steam  Engine,  and  all 
manner  of  queer  things,  but  powder  did  not  end, 
for  custom  hath  many  lives.  Nor  was  there  an 
end  of  those  things  which  the  Nobility  and  Gentry 
had  long  since  shed  from  their  own  persons — as, 
laced  coats  and  velvet  breeches  and  silk  hose; 
forasmuch  as  without  these  powder  could  not  aptly 
be.  And  it  came  to  pass  that  there  was  a  great 
War.     And  there  was  also  a  Russian  Revolution 


SERVANTS  165 

greater  than  the  French  one.  And  it  may  be  that 
everything  will  be  changed,  fundamentally  and 
soon.  Or  it  may  be  merely  that  Sir  John  will 
say  to  his  Lady,  '  My  dear,  I  have  decided  that  the 
footmen  shall  not  wear  powder,  and  not  wear 
livery,  any  more,'  and  that  his  Lady  will  say  'Oh, 
all  right.'  Then  at  length  will  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury vanish  altogether  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

Some  of  the  shallower  historians  would  have  us 
believe  that  powder  is  deleterious  to  the  race  of 
footmen.  They  point  out  how  plenteously  footmen 
abounded  before  1790,  and  how  steadily  their 
numbers  have  declined  ever  since.  I  do  not  dispute 
the  statistics.  One  knows  from  the  Table  Talk  of 
Samuel  Rogers  that  Mr.  Home  Tooke,  dining 
tete-a-tete  with  the  first  Lord  Lansdowne,  had 
counted  so  many  as  thirty  footmen  in  attendance 
on  the  meal.  That  was  a  high  figure — higher 
than  in  Rogers'  day,  and  higher  far,  I  doubt  not, 
than  in  ours.  What  I  refuse  to  believe  is  that  the 
wearing  of  powder  has  caused  among  footmen  an 
ever-increasing  mortality.  Powder  was  forced  on 
them  by  their  employers  because  of  the  French 
Revolution,  but  their  subsequent  fewness  is  trace- 
able rather  to  certain  ideas  forced  by  that  Revolu- 
tion on  their  employers.  The  Nobility  had  begun 
to  feel  that  it  had  better  be  just  a  little  less  noble 
than  heretofore.  When  the  news  of  the  fall  of  the 
Bastille  was  brought  to  him,  the  first  Lord  Lans- 


166  AND  EVEN  NOW 

downe  (I  conceive)  remained  for  many  hours  in 
his  study,  lost  in  thought,  and  at  length,  rising 
from  his  chair,  went  out  into  the  hall  and  discharged 
two  footmen.  This  action  may  have  shortened  his 
life,  but  I  believe  it  to  be  a  fact  that  when  he  lay 
dying,  some  fifteen  years  later,  he  said  to  his  heir, 
*  Discharge  two  more.'  Such  enlightenment  and 
adaptability  were  not  to  be  wondered  at  in  so 
eminent  a  Wliig.  As  time  went  on,  even  in  the 
great  Tory  houses  the  number  of  retainers  was 
gradually  cut  down.  Came  the  Industrial  Age, 
hailed  by  all  publicists  as  the  Millennium.  Looms 
were  now  tended,  and  blast-furnaces  stoked,  by 
middle-aged  men  who  in  their  youth  had  done 
nothing  but  hand  salvers,  and  by  young  men  who 
might  have  been  doing  just  that  if  the  Bastille 
had  been  less  brittle.  Noblemen,  becoming  less 
and  less  sure  of  themselves  under  the  impact  of 
successive  Reform  Bill;-,  wished  to  be  waited  on 
by  less  and  less  numerous  gatherings  of  footmen. 
And  at  length,  in  the  course  of  the  great  War,  any 
Nobleman  not  young  enough  to  be  away  fighting 
was  waited  on  by  an  old  butler  and  a  parlour- 
maid or  two;  and  the  ceiling  did  not  fall. 

Even  if  the  War  shall  have  taught  us  nothing 
else,  this  it  will  have  taught  us  almost  from  its  very 
outset :  to  mistrust  all  prophets,  whether  of  good  or 
of  evil.  Pray  stone  me  if  I  predict  anything  at  all. 
It  may  be  that  the  War,  and  that  remarkable  by- 


SERVANTS  167 

product,  the  Russian  Revolution,  will  have  so 
worked  on  the  minds  of  Noblemen  that  they  will 
prefer  to  have  not  one  footman  in  their  service. 
Or  it  may  be  that  all  those  men  who  might  be 
footmen  will  prefer  to  earn  their  livelihood  in  other 
ways  of  life.  It  may  even  be  that  no  more  parlour- 
maids and  housemaids,  even  for  very  illustrious 
houses,  will  be  forthcoming.  I  do  not  profess  to 
foresee.  Perhaps  things  will  go  on  just  as  before. 
But  remember:  things  were  going  on,  even  then. 
Suppose  that  in  the  social  organism  generally, 
and  in  the  attitude  of  servants  particularly,  the 
decades  after  the  War  shall  bring  but  a  gradual 
evolution  of  what  was  previously  afoot.  Even  on 
this  mild  supposition  must  it  seem  likely  that  some 
of  us  will  live  to  look  back  on  domestic  service, 
or  at  least  on  what  we  now  mean  by  that  term, 
as  a  curiosity  of  past  days. 

You  have  to  look  rather  far  behind  you  for  the 
time  when  'the  servant  question,'  as  it  is  called, 
had  not  yet  begun  to  arise.  To  find  servants 
collectively  'knowing  their  place,'  as  the  phrase 
(not  is,  but)  was,  you  have  to  look  right  back  to  the 
dawn  of  Queen  Victoria's  reign.  I  am  not  sure 
whether  even  then  those  Georgian  notice-boards 
still  stood  in  the  London  parks  to  announce  that 
'Ladies  and  Gentlemen  are  requested,  and  Servants 
are  commanded'  not  to  do  this  and  that.  But  the 
spirit  of   those  boards   did   still  brood   over   the 


168  AND  EVEN  NOW 

land:  servants  received  commands,  not  requests, 
and  were  not  'obliging'  but  obedient.  As  for  the 
tasks  set  them,  I  daresay  the  footmen  in  the 
great  houses  had  an  easy  time:  they  were  there 
for  ornament;  but  the  (comparatively  few)  maids 
there,  and  the  maid  or  two  in  every  home  of  the 
rapidly-increasing  middle  class,  were  very  much  for 
use,  having  to  do  an  immense  amount  of  work 
for  a  wage  which  would  nowadays  seem  nominal. 
And  they  did  it  gladly,  with  no  notion  that  they 
were  giving  much  for  little,  or  that  the  likes  of 
them  had  any  natural  right  to  a  glimpse  of  liberty 
or  to  a  moment's  more  leisure  than  was  needed  to 
preserve  their  health  for  the  benefit  of  their  em- 
ployers, or  that  they  were  not  in  duty  bound  to  be 
truly  thankful  for  having  a  roof  over  their  devoted 
heads.  Rare  and  reprehensible  was  the  maid  who, 
having  found  one  roof,  hankered  after  another. 
Improvident,  too;  for  only  by  long  and  exclusive 
service  could  she  hope  that  in  her  old  age  she  would 
not  be  cast  out  on  the  parish.  She  might  marry 
mean  while. f^  The  chances  were  very  much  against 
that.  That  was  an  idea  misbeseeming  her  station 
in  life.  By  the  rules  of  all  households,  'followers' 
were  fended  ruthlessly  away.  Her  state  was  sheer 
slavery?  Well,  she  was  not  technically  a  chattel. 
The  Law  allowed  her  to  escape  at  any  time,  after 
giving  a  month's  notice;  and  she  did  not  work  for 
no  wages  at  all,  remember.     This  was  hard  on  her 


SERVANTS  169 

owners?  Well,  In  ancient  Rome  and  elsewhere, 
her  employers  would  have  had  to  pay  a  large-ish 
sum  of  money  for  her,  down,  to  a  merchant. 
Economically,  her  employers  had  no  genuine 
grievance.  Her  parents  had  handed  her  over  to 
them,  at  a  tender  age,  for  nothing.  There  she  was ; 
and  if  she  was  a  good  girl  and  gave  satisfaction, 
and  if  she  had  no  gipsy  strain,  to  make  her  restless 
for  the  unknown,  there  she  ended  her  days,  not 
without  honour  from  the  second  or  third  generation 
of  her  owners.  As  in  Ancient  Rome  and  elsewhere, 
the  system  was,  in  the  long  run,  conducive  to 
much  good  feeling  on  either  side.  'Poor  Anne 
remained  very  servile  in  soul  all  her  days ;  and  was 
altogether  occupied,  from  the  age  of  fifteen  to 
seventy-two,  in  doing  other  peoples'  wills,  not  her 
own.'  Thus  wrote  Ruskin,  in  Praeterita,  of  one 
who  had  been  his  nurse,  and  his  father's.  Perhaps 
the  passage  is  somewhat  marred  by  its  first  word. 
But  Ruskin  had  queer  views  on  many  subjects. 
Besides,  he  was  very  old  when,  in  1885,  he  wrote 
Praeterita.  Long  before  that  date,  moreover,  others 
than  he  had  begun  to  have  queer  views.  The 
halcyon  days  were  over. 

Even  in  the  'sixties  there  were  many  dark  and 
cumulose  clouds.  It  was  believed,  however,  that 
these  would  pass.  'Punch,'  our  ever-quick  inter- 
preter, made  light  of  them.  Absurd  that  Jemima 
Jane  should  imitate  the  bonnets  of  her  mistress 


170  AND  EVEN  NOW 

and  secretly  aspire  to  play  the  piano!  'Punch' 
and  his  artists,  as  you  will  find  in  his  old  volumes, 
were  very  merry  about  her,  and  no  doubt  his 
readers  believed  that  his  exquisite  ridicule  would 
kill,  or  his  sound  good  sense  cure,  the  malady  in  her 
soul.  Poor  misguided  girl ! — why  was  she  flying  in 
the  face  of  Nature?  Nature  had  decreed  that  some 
should  command,  others  obey;  that  some  should 
sit  imperative  all  day  in  airy  parlours,  and  others 
be  executive  in  basements.  I  daresay  that  among 
the  sitters  aloft  there  were  many  whose  indignation 
had  a  softer  side  to  it.  Under  the  Christian  Em- 
perors, Roman  ladies  were  really  very  sorry  for 
their  slaves.  It  is  unlikely  that  no  English  ladies 
were  so  in  the  'sixties.  Pity,  after  all,  is  in  itself  a 
luxury.  It  is  for  the  'some'  a  measure  of  the  gulf 
between  themselves  and  the  'others.'  Those  others 
had  now  begun  to  show  signs  of  restiveness;  but 
the  gulf  was  as  wide  as  ever. 

Anthony  Trollope  was  not,  like  'Punch,'  a  mere 
interpreter  of  what  was  upmost  in  the  average 
English  mind:  he  was  a  beautifully  patient  and 
subtle  demonstrator  of  all  that  was  therein.  Read- 
ing him,  I  soon  forget  that  I  am  reading  about 
fictitious  characters  and  careers;  quite  soon  do 
I  feel  that  I  am  collating  intimate  memoirs  and 
diaries.  For  sheer  conviction  of  truth,  give  me 
Trollope.  You,  too,  if  you  know  him,  must  often 
have  uttered  this  appeal.     Very  well.     Have  you 


SERVANTS  171 

been  given  'Orley  Farm'?  And  do  you  remember 
how  Lady  Mason  felt  after  confessing  to  Sir  Pere- 
grine Orme  that  she  had  forged  the  will?  'As  she 
slowly  made  her  way  across  the  hall,  she  felt  that 
all  of  evil,  all  of  punishment,  had  now  fallen  upon 
her.  There  are  periods  in  the  lives  of  some  of 
us — I  trust  but  of  few — when  with  the  silent  inner 
voice  of  suffering' — and  here,  in  justice  to  Trollope, 
I  must  interrupt  him  by  saying  that  he  seldom 
writes  like  this;  and  I  must  also,  for  a  reason 
which  will  soon  be  plain,  ask  you  not  to  skip  a 
word — '  we  call  on  the  mountains  to  fall  and  crush 
us,  and  on  the  earth  to  gape  open  and  take  us  in — 
when  with  an  agony  of  intensity,  we  wish  our 
mothers  had  been  barren.  In  these  moments  the 
poorest  and  most  desolate  are  objects  to  us  of  envy, 
for  their  sufferings  can  be  as  nothing  to  our  own. 
Lady  Mason,  as  she  crept  silently  across  the  hall, 
saw  a  servant  girl  pass  down  towards  the  entrance 
to  the  kitchen,  and  would  have  given  all,  all  that 
she  had  in  the  world,  to  change  places  with  that  girl. 
But  no  change  was  possible  to  her.  Neither  would 
the  mountains  crush  her,  nor  the  earth  take  her  in. 
This  was  her  burden,  and  she  must'  etc.,  etc. 

You  enjoyed  the  wondrous  bathos?  Of  course. 
And  yet  there  wasn't  any  bathos  at  all,  really. 
At  least,  there  wasn't  any  in  1862,  when  'Orley 
Farm'  was  published.  Servants  really  were  'most 
desolate'    in    those    days,    and    'their    sufferings' 


172  AND  EVEN  NOW 

were  less  acute  only  than  those  of  gentlewomen 
who  had  forged  wills.  This  is  an  exaggerated  view? 
Well  it  was  the  view  held  by  gentlewomen  at  large, 
in  the  'sixties.     Trust  Trollope. 

Why  to  a  modern  gentlewoman  would  it  seem  so 
much  more  dreadful  to  be  crushed  by  mountains 
and  swallowed  by  earthquakes  than  to  be  a  servant 
girl  passing  down  towards  the  entrance  to  the 
kitchen?  In  other  words,  how  is  it  that  servants 
have  so  much  less  unpleasant  a  time  than  they  were 
having  half-a-century  ago?  1  should  like  to  think 
this  melioration  came  through  our  sense  of  justice, 
but  I  cannot  claim  that  it  did.  Somehow,  our 
sense  of  justice  never  turns  in  its  sleep  till  long 
after  the  sense  of  injustice  in  others  has  been 
thoroughly  aroused;  nor  is  it  ever  up  and  doing 
till  those  others  have  begun  to  make  themselves 
thoroughly  disagreeable,  and  not  even  then  will  it 
be  up  and  doing  more  than  is  urgently  required  of  it 
by  our  convenience  at  the  moment.  For  the 
improvement  in  their  lot,  servants  must,  I  am 
afraid,  be  allowed  to  thank  themselves  rather  than 
their  employers.  I  am  not  going  to  trace  the 
stages  of  that  improvement.  I  will  not  try  to  de- 
cide in  what  your  servants  passed  from  wistfulness 
to  resentment,  or  from  resentment  to  exaction. 
This  is  not  a  sociological  treatise,  it  is  just  an  essay; 
and  I  claim  an  essayist's  privilege  of  not  groping 
through  the  library  of  the  British   Museum   on 


SERVANTS  173 

the  chance  of  mastering  all  the  details.  I  confess 
that  I  did  go  there  yesterday,  thinking  I  should 
find  in  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sidney  Webb's  'History  of 
Trade  Unionism'  the  means  of  appearing  to  know 
much.  But  I  drew  blank.  It  would  seem  that 
servants  have  no  trade  union.  This  is  strange. 
One  would  not  have  thought  so  much  could  be 
done  without  organisation.  The  mere  Spirit  of  the 
Time,  sneaking  down  the  steps  of  areas,  has  worked 
wonders.  There  has  been  no  servants'  campaign, 
no  strategy,  nothing  but  an  infinite  series  of  spon- 
taneous and  sporadic  little  risings  in  isolated  house- 
holds. Wonders  have  been  worked,  yes.  But 
servants  are  not  yet  satiated  with  triumph.  More 
and  more,  on  the  contrary,  do  they  glide — long 
before  the  War  they  had  begun  gliding — away  into 
other  forms  of  employment.  Not  merely  are  the 
changed  conditions  of  domestic  service  not  changed 
enough  for  them:  they  seem  to  despise  the  thing 
itself.  It  was  all  very  well  so  long  as  they  had 
not  been  taught  to  read  and  write,  but —  There, 
no  doubt,  is  the  root  of  the  mischief.  Had  the 
governing  classes  not  forced  those  accomplishments 
on  them  in  1872 —  But  there  is  no  use  in  repining. 
What's  done  can't  be  undone.  On  the  other  hand, 
what  must  be  done  can't  be  left  undone.  House- 
work, for  example.  What  concessions  by  the 
governing  classes,  what  bribes,  will  be  big  enough 
hereafter  to  get  that  done-f^ 


174  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Perhaps  the  governing  classes  will  do  it  for  them- 
selves, eventually,  and  their  ceilings  not  fall. 
Or  perhaps  there  will  be  no  more  governing  classes 
— merely  the  State  and  its  swarms  of  neat  little 
overseers,  male  and  female.  I  know  not  whether 
in  this  case  the  sum  of  human  happiness  will  be 
greater,  but  it  will  certainly — it  and  the  sum  of 
human  dullness — be  more  evenly  distributed.  I 
take  it  that  under  any  scheme  of  industrial  com- 
pulsion for  the  young  a  certain  number  of  the 
conscripts  would  be  told  off  for  domestic  service. 
To  every  family  in  every  flat  (houses  not  legal) 
would  be  assigned  one  female  member  of  the 
community.  She  would  be  twenty  years  old, 
having  just  finished  her  course  of  general  education 
at  a  municipal  college.  Three  years  would  be 
her  term  of  industrial  (sub-sect,  domestic)  service. 
Her  diet,  her  costume,  her  hours  of  work  and  lei- 
sure, would  be  standardised,  but  the  lenses  of  her 
pince-nez  would  be  in  strict  accordance  to  her  own 
eyesight.  If  her  employers  found  her  faulty  in 
work  or  conduct,  and  proved  to  the  visiting  in- 
spector that  she  was  so,  she  would  be  penalised  by 
an  additional  term  of  service.  If  she,  on  the  other 
band,  made  good  any  complaint  against  her  em- 
ployers, she  would  be  transferred  to  another  flat, 
and  they  be  penalised  by  suspension  of  their  license 
to  employ.  There  would  always  be  chances  of 
friction.     But    these    chances    would    not   be    so 


SERVANTS  175 

numerous  nor  so  great  as  they  are  under  that  lack 
of  system  which  survives  to-day. 

Servants  would  be  persons  knowing  that  for  a 
certain  period  certain  tasks  were  imposed  on  them, 
tasks  tantamount  to  those  in  which  all  their  co- 
sevals  were  simultaneously  engaged.  To-day  they 
are  persons  not  knowing,  as  who  should  say,  where 
they  are,  and  wishing  all  the  while  they  were 
elsewhere — and  mostly,  as  I  have  said,  going 
elsewhere.  Those  who  remain  grow  more  and  more 
touchy,  knowing  themselves  a  mock  to  the  rest; 
and  their  qualms,  even  more  uncomfortably  than 
their  demands  and  defects,  are  always  haunting 
their  employers.  It  seems  almost  incredible  that 
there  was  a  time  when  Mrs.  Smith  said  'Sarah, 
your  master  wishes!'  or  Mr.  Smith  said  'Sarah, 
go  up  and  ask  your  mistress  whether — '  I  am 
well  aware  that  the  very  title  of  this  essay  jars." 
I  wish  I  could  find  another;  but  in  writing  one 
must  be  more  explicit  than  one  need  be  by  word 
of  mouth.  I  am  well  aware  that  the  survival  of 
domestic  service,  in  its  old  form,  depends  more  and 
more  on  our  agreement  not  to  mention  it. 

Assuredly,  a  most  uncomfortable  state  of  things. 
Is  it,  after  all,  worth  saving? — a  form  so  depleted 
of  right  human  substance,  an  anomaly  so  ticklish. 
Consider,  in  your  friend's  house,  the  cheerful  smile 
of  yonder  parlourmaid;  hark  to  the  housemaid's 
light  brisk  tread  in  the  corridor;    note  well  the 


176  AND  EVEN  NOW 

slight  droop  of  the  footman's  shoulders  as  he 
noiselessly  draws  near.  Such  things,  as  being 
traditional,  may  pander  to  your  sense  of  the  great 
past.  Histrionically,  too,  they  are  good.  But  do 
you  really  like  them?  Do  they  not  make  your 
blood  run  a  trifle  cold?  In  the  thick  of  the 
great  past,  you  would  have  liked  them  well  enough, 
no  doubt.  I  myself  am  old  enough  to  have  known 
two  or  three  servants  of  the  old  school — later 
editions  of  Ruskin's  Anne.  With  them  there  was 
no  discomfort,  for  they  had  no  misgiving.  They 
had  never  wished  (heaven  help  them!)  for  more, 
and  in  the  process  of  the  long  years  had  acquired, 
for  inspiration  of  others,  much — a  fine  mellowness, 
the  peculiar  sort  of  dignity,  even  of  wisdom,  that 
comes  only  of  staying  always  in  the  same  place, 
among  the  same  people,  doing  the  same  things 
perpetually.  Theirs  was  the  sap  that  rises  only 
from  deep  roots,  and  where  they  were  you  had 
always  the  sense  of  standing  under  great  wide 
branches.  One  especially  would  I  recall,  who — 
no,  personally  I  admire  the  plungingly  intimate 
kind  of  essayist  very  much  indeed,  but  I  never 
was  of  that  kind,  and  it's  too  late  to  begin  now. 
For  a  type  of  old-world  servant  I  would  recall 
rather  some  more  public  worthy,  such  as  that 
stout  old  hostler  whom,  whenever  you  went  up  to 
stay  in  Hampstead,  you  would  see  standing  planted 
outside  that  stout  old  hostelry,  Jack  Straw's  Castle. 


SERVANTS  177 

He  stands  there  no  more,  and  the  hostelry  can 
never  again  be  to  me  all  that  it  was  of  solid  com- 
fort. Or  perhaps,  as  he  was  so  entirely  an  outside 
figure,  I  might  rather  say  that  Hampstead  itself  is 
not  what  it  was.  His  robust  but  restful  form, 
topped  with  that  weather-beaten  and  chin-bearded 
face,  was  the  hub  of  the  summit  of  Hampstead.  He 
was  as  richly  local  as  the  pond  there — that  famous 
pond  wliich  in  hot  weather  is  so  much  waded 
through  by  cart-horses  and  is  at  all  seasons  so 
much  barked  around  by  excitable  dogs  and  cruised 
on  by  toy  boats.  He  was  as  essential  as  it  and  the 
flag-staff  and  the  gorse  and  the  view  over  the  valley 
away  to  Highgate.  It  was  always  to  Highgate  that 
his  big  blue  eyes  were  looking,  and  on  Highgate 
that  he  seemed  to  be  ruminating.  Not  that  I 
think  he  wanted  to  go  there.  He  was  Hampstead- 
born  and  Hampstead-bred,  and  very  loyal  to  that 
village.  In  the  course  of  his  life  he  had  '  bin  down 
to  London  a  matter  o'  three  or  four  times,'  he 
would  tell  me,  'an'  slep'  there  once.'  He  knew  me 
to  be  a  native  of  that  city,  and,  for  he  was  the  most 
respectful  of  men,  did  not  make  any  adverse 
criticism  of  it.  But  clearly  it  had  not  prepossessed 
him.  Men  and — horses  rather  than  cities  were 
what  he  knew.  And  his  memory  was  more  reten- 
tive of  horses  than  of  men.  But  he  did — and  this 
was  a  great  thrill  for  me — did,  after  some  pondering 
at  my  behest,  remember  to  have  seen  in  Heath 


178  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Street,  when  he  was  a  boy,  'a  gen'leman  with 
summut  long  hair,  settin'  in  a  small  cart,  takin* 
a  pictur'.'  To  me  Ford  Madox  Brown's  'Work' 
is  of  all  modern  pictur's  the  most  delightful  in 
composition  and  strongest  in  conception,  the  most 
alive  and  the  most  worth-while;  and  I  take  great 
pride  in  having  known  some  one  who  saw  it  in  the 
making.  But  my  friend  himself  set  little  store  on 
anything  that  had  befallen  him  in  days  before  he 
was  'took  on  as  stable-lad  at  the  Castle.'  His 
pride  was  in  the  Castle,  wholly. 

Part  of  his  charm,  like  Hampstead's,  was  in  the 
surprise  one  had  at  finding  anything  like  it  so  near 
to  London.  Even  now,  if  you  go  to  districts  near 
which  no  great  towns  are,  you  will  find  here  and 
there  an  inn  that  has  a  devoted  waiter,  a  house  with 
a  fond  butler.  As  to  butlers  elsewhere,  butlers  in 
general,  there  is  one  thing  about  them  that  I  do 
not  at  all  understand.  It  seems  to  be  against 
nature,  yet  it  is  a  fact,  that  in  the  past  forty  years 
they  have  been  growing  younger;  and  slimmer. 
In  my  childhood  they  were  old,  without  exception; 
and  stout.  At  the  close  of  the  last  century  they  had 
gradually  relapsed  into  middle  age,  losing  weight 
all  the  time.  And  in  the  years  that  followed  they 
were  passing  back  behmd  the  prime  of  life,  becoming 
willowy  juveniles.  In  1915,  it  is  true,  the  work  of 
past  decades  was  undone:  butlers  were  suddenly 
as  old  and  stout  as  ever  they  were,  and  so  they  still 


SERVANTS  179 

are.  But  this,  I  take  it,  is  only  a  temporary  set- 
back. At  the  restoration  of  peace  butlers  will 
reappear  among  us  as  they  were  in  1915,  and  anon 
will  be  losing  height  and  weight  too,  till  they  shall 
have  become  bright-eyed  children,  with  pattering 
feet.  Or  will  their  childhood  be  of  a  less  gracious 
kind  than  that.^^  I  fear  so.  I  have  seen,  from 
time  to  time,  butlers  who  had  shed  all  semblance 
of  grace,  butlers  whose  whole  demeanour  was 
a  manifesto  of  contempt  for  their  calling  and  of 
devotion  to  the  Spirit  of  the  Age.  I  have  seen  a 
butler  in  a  well-established  household  strolling 
around  the  diners  without  the  slightest  droop, 
and  pouring  out  wine  in  an  off-hand  and  quite 
obviously  hostile  manner.  I  have  seen  him,  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  meal,  yawning.  I  remember 
another  whom,  positively,  I  heard  humming — a 
faint  sound  indeed,  but  menacing  as  the  roll  of 
tumbrils. 

These  were  exceptional  cases,  I  grant.  For  the 
most  part,  the  butlers  observed  by  me  have  had  a 
manner  as  correctly  smooth  and  colourless  as  their 
very  shirt-fronts.  Aye,  and  in  two  or  three  of 
them,  modern  though  they  were  in  date  and  aspect, 
I  could  have  sworn  there  was  '  a  flame  of  old-world 
fealty  all  bright.'  Were  these  but  the  finer  come- 
dians? There  was  one  (I  will  call  him  Brett) 
who  had  an  almost  dog-like  way  of  watching  his 
master.     Was  this  but  a  calculated  touch  in  a 


180  AND  EVEN  NOW 

merely  aesthetic  whole?  Brett  was  tall  and 
slender,  and  his  movements  were  those  of  a  grey- 
hound under  perfect  self-control.  Baldness  at  the 
temples  enhanced  the  solemnity  of  his  thin  smooth 
face.  It  is  more  than  twenty  years  since  first  I 
saw  him;  and  for  a  long  period  I  saw  him  often, 
both  in  town  and  in  country.  Against  the  back- 
ground of  either  house  he  was  impeccable.  Many 
butlers  might  be  that.  Brett's  supremacy  was  in 
the  sense  he  gave  one  that  he  was,  after  all,  human 
— that  he  had  a  heart,  in  which  he  had  taken  the 
liberty  to  reserve  a  corner  for  any  true  friend  of  his 
master  and  mistress.  I  remember  well  the  first 
time  he  overstepped  sheer  formality  in  relation  to 
myself.  It  was  one  morning  in  the  country,  when 
my  entertainers  and  my  fellow  guests  had  gone 
out  in  pursuit  of  some  sport  at  which  I  was  no  good. 
I  was  in  the  smoking  room,  reading  a  book.  Sud- 
denly— no,  Brett  never  appeared  anywhere  sud- 
denly. Brett  appeared,  paused  at  precisely  the 
right  speaking  distance,  and  said  in  a  low  voice, 
*  I  thought  it  might  interest  you  to  know,  sir,  that 
there's  a  white- tailed  magpie  out  on  the  lawn. 
Very  rare,  as  you  know,  sir.  If  you  look  out  of  the 
window  you  will  see  the  little  fellow  hopping  about 
on  the  lawn.'  I  thanked  him  effusively  as  I  darted 
to  the  window,  and  simulated  an  intense  interest 
in  'the  little  fellow.'  I  greatly  overdid  my  part. 
Exit  Brett,  having  done  his  to  perfection. 


SERVANTS  181 

¥71iat  worries  me  is  not  that  I  showed  so  little 
self-command  and  so  much  insincerity,  but  the 
doubt  whether  Brett's  flawless  technique  was  the 
vehicle  for  an  act  of  true  good  feeling  or  was  used 
simply  for  the  pleasure  of  using  it.  Similar  doubts 
abide  in  all  my  special  memories  of  him.  There 
was  an  evening  when  he  seemed  to  lose  control 
over  himself — but  did  he  really  lose  it?  There 
were  only  four  people  at  dinner :  my  host,  his  wife, 
their  nephew  (a  young  man  famous  for  drollery), 
and  myself.  Towards  the  end  of  dinner  the  conver- 
sation had  turned  on  early  marriages.  'I,'  said 
the  young  man  presently,  'shall  not  marry  till  I 
am  seventy.  I  shall  then  marry  some  charming 
girl  of  seventeen.'  His  aunt  threw  up  her  hands, 
exclaiming,  'Oh,  Tom,  what  a  perfectly  horrible 
idea!  Why,  she  isn't  horn  yet!'  'No,'  said  the 
young  man,  'but  I  have  my  eye  on  her  mother.' 
At  this,  Brett,  who  was  holding  a  light  for  his 
master's  cigarette,  turned  away  convulsively,  with 
a  sudden  dip  of  the  head,  and  vanished  from  the 
room.  His  breakdown  touched  and  pleased  all  four 
beholders.  But— was  it  a  genuine  lapse?  Or  merely 
a  feint  to  thrill  us? — the  feint  of  an  equilibrist  so 
secure  that  he  can  pretend  to  lose  his  balance? 

If  I  knew  why  Brett  ceased  to  be  butler  in  that 
household,  I  might  be  in  less  doubt  as  to  the 
true  inwardness  of  him.  I  knew  only  that  he  was 
gone.     That  was  fully  ten  years  ago.    Since  then  I 


182  AND  EVEN  NOW 

have  had  one  glimpse  of  him.  This  was  on  a 
summer  night  in  London.  I  had  gone  out  late  to 
visit  some  relatives  and  assure  myself  that  they 
were  safe  and  sound;  for  Zeppelins  had  just  passed 
over  London  for  the  first  time.  Not  so  much 
horror  as  a  very  deep  disgust  was  the  atmosphere 
in  the  populous  quiet  streets  and  squares.  One 
square  was  less  quiet  than  others,  because  some- 
body was  steadily  whistling  for  a  taxi.  Anon  I  saw 
the  whistler  silhouetted  in  the  light  cast  out  on  a 
wide  doorstep  from  an  open  door,  and  I  saw  that 
he  was  Brett.  His  attitude,  as  he  bent  out  into 
the  dark  night,  was  perfect  in  grace,  but  eloquent 
of  a  great  tensity — even  of  agony.  Behind  him 
stood  a  lady  in  an  elaborate  evening  cloak.  Brett's 
back  must  have  conveyed  to  her  in  every  curve  his 
surprise,  his  shame,  that  she  should  be  kept  waiting. 
His  chivalry  in  her  behalf  was  such  as  Burke's  for 
Marie  Antoinette — little  had  he  dreamed  that  he 
should  have  lived  to  see  such  disasters  fallen  upon 
her  in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in  a  nation  of  men 
of  honour,  and  of  cavaliers.  He  had  thought  ten 
thousand  taxis  must  have  leaped  from  their  stands, 
etc.  The  whistle  that  at  first  sounded  merely 
mechanical  and  ear-piercing  had  become  heart- 
rending and  human  when  I  saw  from  whom  it 
proceeded — a  very  heart-cry  that  still  haunts  me. 
But  was  it  a  heart-cry  .^^  Was  Brett,  is  Brett,  more 
than  a  mere  virtuoso? 


SERVANTS  183 

He  is  in  any  case  what  employers  call  a  treasure, 
and  to  any  one  who  wishes  to  go  forth  and  hunt 
for  him  I  will  supply  a  chart  showing  the  way 
to  that  doorstep  on  which  last  I  saw  him.  But 
I  myself,  were  I  ever  so  able  to  pay  his  wages, 
should  never  covet  him — no,  nor  anything  like  him. 
Perhaps  we  are  not  afraid  of  menservants  if  we  look 
out  at  them  from  the  cradle.  None  was  visible 
from  mine.  Only  in  later  years  and  under  external 
auspices  did  I  come  across  any  of  them.  And  I 
am  as  afraid  of  them  as  ever.  Maidservants 
frighten  me  less,  but  they  also — except  the  two 
or  three  ancients  aforesaid — have  always  struck 
some  degree  of  terror  to  my  soul.  The  whole  notion 
of  domestic  service  has  never  not  seemed  to  me 
unnatural.  I  take  no  credit  for  enlightenment. 
Not  to  have  the  instinct  to  command  implies  a  lack 
of  the  instinct  to  obey.  The  two  aptitudes  are 
but  different  facets  of  one  jewel :  the  sense  of  order. 
When  I  became  a  schoolboy,  I  greatly  disliked  being 
a  monitor's  fag.  Other  fags  there  were  who  took 
pride  in  the  quality  of  the  toast  they  made  for  the 
breakfasts  and  suppers  of  their  superiors.  My 
own  feeling  was  that  I  would  rather  eat  it  myself, 
and  that  if  I  mightn't  eat  it  myself  I  would  rather 
it  were  not  very  good.  Similarly,  when  I  grew  to 
have  fags  of  my  own,  and  by  morning  and  by  even- 
ing one  of  them  solemnly  entered  to  me  bearing  a 
plate  on  which  those  three  traditional  pieces  of 


184  AND  EVEN  NOW 

toast  were  solemnly  propped  one  against  another, 
I  cared  not  at  all  whether  the  toast  were  good  or 
bad,  havmg  no  relish  for  it  at  best,  but  could  have 
eaten  with  gusto  toast  made  by  my  own  hand, 
not  at  all  understanding  why  that  member  should 
be  accounted  too  august  for  such  employment. 
Even  so  in  my  later  life  Loth  to  obey,  loth  to 
command.  Convention  (for  she  too  frightens  me) 
has  made  me  accept  what  servants  v/ould  do  for 
me  by  rote.  But  I  v/ouid  liefer  have  it  ill-done 
than  ask  even  the  least  mettlesome  of  them  to  do 
it  better,  and  far  liefer,  if  they  would  only  be  off 
and  not  do  it  at  all,  do  it  for  myself.  In  Italy — 
dear  Italy,  where  I  have  lived  much — servants  do 
still  regard  service  somewhat  in  the  old  way,  as  a 
sort  of  privilege;  so  that  with  Italian  servants  I 
am  comparatively  at  my  ease.  But  oh,  the  delight 
when  on  the  afternoon  of  some  local  festa  there  is 
no  servant  at  all  in  the  little  house!  Oh,  the  reac- 
tion, the  impulse  to  sing  and  dance,  and  the  posi- 
tive quick  obedience  to  that  impulse!  Conven- 
tion alone  has  forced  me  to  be  any v/here  a  master. 
Ariel  and  Caliban,  had  I  been  Prospero  on  that 
island,  would  have  had  nothing  to  do  and  nothing 
to  complain  of;  and  Man  Friday  on  that  other 
island  would  have  bored  me,  had  I  been  Crusoe. 
When  I  was  a  king  in  Babylon  and  you  were  a 
Christian  slave,  I  promptly  freed  you. 

Anarchistic?     Yes;    and  I  have  no  defence  to 


SERVANTS  185 

offer,  except  the  rather  lame  one  that  I  am  a  Tory 
Anarchist.  I  should  like  every  one  to  go  about 
doing  just  as  he  pleased — short  of  altering  any  of 
the  things  to  which  I  have  grown  accustomed. 
Domestic  service  is  not  one  of  those  things,  and  I 
should  be  glad  were  there  no  more  of  it. 


GOING  OUT  FOR  A  WALK 


GOING   OUT  FOR  A  WALK 

1918. 

IT  is  a  fact  that  not  once  in  all  my  life  have  I 
gone  out  for  a  walk.  I  have  been  taken  out 
for  walks;  but  that  is  another  matter. 
Even  while  I  trotted  prattling  by  my  nurse's  side 
I  regretted  the  good  old  days  when  I  had,  and 
wasn't,  a  perambulator.  When  I  grew  up  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  one  advantage  of  living  in  London 
was  that  nobody  ever  wanted  me  to  come  out  for 
a  walk.  London's  very  drawbacks — its  endless 
noise  and  bustle,  its  smoky  air,  the  squalor  am- 
bushed everywhere  in  it — assured  this  one  im- 
munity. Whenever  I  was  with  friends  in  the  coun- 
try, I  knew  that  at  any  moment,  unless  rain  were 
actually  falling,  some  man  might  suddenly  say 
'Come  out  for  a  walk!'  in  that  sharp  imperative 
tone  which  he  would  not  dream  of  using  in  any  other 
connexion.  People  seem  to  think  there  is  something 
inherently  noble  and  virtuous  in  the  desire  to  go  for 
a  walk.  Any  one  thus  desirous  feels  that  he  has  a 
right  to  impose  his  will  on  whomever  he  sees  com- 
fortably settled  in  an  arm-chair,  reading.  It  is  easy 
to  say  simply  '  No '  to  an  old  friend.  In  the  case  of  a 

189 


190  AND  EVEN  NOW 

mere  acquaintance  one  wants  some  excuse.  *I 
wish  I  could,  but' — nothing  ever  occurs  to  me 
except  'I  have  some  letters  to  write.'  This  formula 
is  unsatisfactory  in  three  ways.  (1)  It  isn't  be- 
lieved. (2)  It  compels  you  to  rise  from  your  chair, 
go  to  the  writing-table,  and  sit  improvising  a  letter 
to  somebody  until  the  walkmonger  (just  not  daring 
to  call  you  liar  and  hypocrite)  shall  have  lumbered 
out  of  the  room.  (3)  It  won't  operate  on  Sunday 
mornings.  'There's  no  post  out  till  this  evening' 
chnches  the  matter;  and  you  may  as  well  go 
quietly. 

Walking  for  walldng's  sake  may  be  as  highly 
laudable  and  exemplary  a  thing  as  it  is  held  to  be 
by  those  who  practise  it.  My  objection  to  it  is 
that  it  stops  the  brain.  Many  a  man  has  professed 
to  me  that  his  brain  never  works  so  well  as  when 
he  is  swinging  along  the  high  road  or  over  hill  and 
dale.  This  boast  is  not  confirmed  by  my  memory 
of  anybody  who  on  a  Sunday  morning  has  forced 
me  to  partake  of  his  adventure.  Experience 
teaches  me  that  whatever  a  fellow-guest  may  have 
of  power  to  instruct  or  to  amuse  when  he  is  sitting 
on  a  chair,  or  standing  on  a  hearth-rug,  quickly 
leaves  him  when  he  takes  one  out  for  a  walk.  The 
ideas  that  came  so  thick  and  fast  to  him  in  any 
room,  where  are  they  now?  where  that  encyclo- 
paedic knowledge  which  he  bore  so  lightly .^^  where 
the  kindling  fancy  that  played  like  summer  light- 


GOING  OUT  FOR  A  WALK  191 

ning  over  any  topic  that  was  started?  The  man's 
face  that  was  so  mobile  is  set  now;  gone  is  the 
light  from  his  fine  eyes.  He  says  that  A.  (our  host) 
is  a  thoroughly  good  fellow.  Fifty  yards  further 
on,  he  adds  that  A,  is  one  of  the  best  fellows  he  has 
ever  met.  We  tramp  another  furlong  or  so, 
and  he  says  that  Mrs.  A.  is  a  charming  woman. 
Presently  he  adds  that  she  is  one  of  the  most 
charming  women  he  has  ever  known.  We  pass  an 
inn.  He  reads  vapidly  aloud  to  me:  *  The  King's 
Arms.  Licensed  to  sell  Ales  and  Spirits.'  I  fore- 
see that  during  the  rest  of  the  walk  he  will  read 
aloud  any  inscription  that  occurs.  We  pass  a 
milestone.  He  points  at  it  with  his  stick,  and  says 
'Uxminster.  11  Miles.'  We  turn  a  sharp  corner 
at  the  foot  of  a  hill.  He  points  at  the  wall,  and 
says  'Drive  Slowly.'  I  see  far  ahead,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge  bordering  the  high  road,  a  small 
notice-board.  He  sees  it  too.  He  keeps  his  eye 
on  it.  And  in  due  course  'Trespassers,'  he  says, 
'Will  Be  Prosecuted.'  Poor  man! — mentally  a 
wreck. 

Luncheon  at  the  A.s,  however,  salves  him  and 
floats  him  in  full  sail.  Behold  him  once  more  the 
life  and  soul  of  the  party.  Surely  he  will  never, 
after  the  bitter  lesson  of  this  morning,  go  out  for 
another  walk.  An  hour  later,  I  see  him  striding 
forth,  with  a  new  companion.  I  watch  him  out 
of  sight.     I  know  what  he  is  saying.     He  is  saying 


192  AND  EVEN  NOW 

that  I  am  rather  a  dull  man  to  go  a  walk  with.  He 
will  presently  add  that  I  am  one  of  the  dullest  men 
he  ever  went  a  walk  with.  Then  he  will  devote 
himself  to  reading  out  the  inscriptions. 

How  comes  it,  this  immediate  deterioration  in 
those  who  go  walking  for  walking's  sake.^*  Just 
what  happens?  I  take  it  that  not  by  his  reasoning 
faculties  is  a  man  urged  to  this  enterprise.  He  is 
urged,  evidently,  by  something  in  him  that  tran- 
scends reason;  by  his  soul,  I  presume.  Yes,  it 
must  be  the  soul  that  raps  out  the  '  Quick  march ! ' 
to  the  body. — 'Halt!  Stand  at  ease!'  interposes 
the  brain,  and  *To  what  destination,'  it  suavely 
asks  the  soul, '  and  on  what  errand,  are  you  sending 
the  body.?' — 'On  no  errand  whatsoever,'  the  soul 
makes  answer,  'and  to  no  destination  at  all.  It 
is  just  like  you  to  be  always  on  the  look-out  for 
some  subtle  ulterior  motive.  The  body  is  going 
out  because  the  mere  fact  of  its  doing  so  is  a  sure 
indication  of  nobility,  probity,  and  rugged  grandeur 
of  character.' — 'Very  well,  Vagula,  have  your  own 
wayula!  But  I,'  says  the  brain,  'flatly  refuse  to 
be  mixed  up  in  this  tomfoolery.  I  shall  go  to  sleep 
till  it  is  over.'  The  brain  then  wraps  itself  up  in 
its  own  convolutions,  and  falls  into  a  dreamless 
slumber  from  which  nothing  can  rouse  it  till  the 
body  has  been  safely  deposited  indoors  again. 

Even  if  you  go  to  some  definite  place,  for  some 
definite  purpose,  the  brain  would  rather  you  took 


GOING  OUT  FOR  A  WALK         193 

a  vehicle;  but  it  does  not  make  a  point  of  this; 
it  will  serve  you  well  enough  unless  you  are  going 
out  for  a  walk.  It  won't,  while  your  legs  are  vying 
with  each  other,  do  any  deep  thinking  for  you,  nor 
even  any  close  thinking;  but  it  will  do  any  number 
of  small  odd  jobs  for  you  willingly — provided  that 
your  legs,  also,  are  making  themselves  useful,  not 
merely  bandying  you  about  to  gratify  the  pride  of 
the  soul.  Such  as  it  is,  this  essay  was  composed 
in  the  course  of  a  walk,  this  morning.  I  am  not 
one  of  those  extremists  who  must  have  a  vehicle 
to  every  destination.  I  never  go  out  of  my  way, 
as  it  were,  to  avoid  exercise.  I  take  it  as  it  comes, 
and  take  it  in  good  part.  That  valetudinarians  are 
always  chattering  about  it,  and  indulging  in  it  to 
excess,  is  no  reason  for  despising  it.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  in  moderation  it  is  rather  good  for 
one,  physically.  But,  pending  a  time  when  no 
people  wish  me  to  go  and  see  them,  and  I  have  no 
wish  to  go  and  see  any  one,  and  there  is  nothing 
whatever  for  me  to  do  off  my  own  premises,  I  never 
will  go  out  for  a  walk. 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM 

1918. 

1HAVE  often  wondered  that  no  one  has  set 
himself  to  collect  unfinished  works  of  art. 
There  is  a  peculiar  charm  for  all  of  us  in  that 
which  was  still  in  the  making  when  its  maker 
died,  or  in  that  which  he  laid  aside  because  he  was 
tired  of  it,  or  didn't  see  his  way  to  the  end  of  it, 
or  wanted  to  go  on  to  something  else.  Mr.  Pickwick 
and  the  Ancient  Mariner  are  valued  friends  of  ours, 
but  they  do  not  preoccupy  us  like  Edwin  Drood  or 
Kubla  Klian.  Had  that  revolving  chair  at  Gad's 
Hill  become  empty  but  a  few  weeks  later  than  it 
actually  did,  or  had  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  in  the 
act  of  setting  down  his  dream  about  the  Eastern 
potentate  not  been  interrupted  by  'a  person  on 
business  from  Porlock'  and  so  lost  the  thread  of 
the  thing  for  ever,  from  two  what  delightful  glades 
for  roaming  in  would  our  fancy  be  excluded !  The 
very  globe  we  live  on  is  a  far  more  fascinating  sphere 
than  it  can  have  been  when  men  supposed  that 
men  like  themselves  would  be  on  it  to  the  end  of 
time.  It  is  only  since  we  heard  what  Darwin  had 
to  say,  only  since  we  have  had  to  accept  as  im- 
provisible  what  lies  far  ahead,  that  the  Book  of 

197 


198  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Life  has  taken  so  strong  a  hold  on  us  and  'once 
taken  up,  cannot,'  as  the  reviewers  say,  'readily 
be  laid  down.'  The  work  doesn't  strike  us  as  a 
masterpiece  yet,  certainly ;  but  who  knows  that  it 
isn't — -that  it  won't  be,  judged  as  a  whole? 

For  sheer  creativeness,  no  human  artist,  I  take 
it,  has  a  higher  repute  than  Michael  Angelo;  none 
perhaps  has  a  repute  so  high.  But  what  if  Michael 
Angelo  had  been  a  little  more  persevering,'*  All 
those  years  he  spent  in  the  process  of  just  a-going 
to  begin  Pope  Julius'  tomb,  and  again,  all  those 
blank  spaces  for  his  pictures  and  bare  pedestals  for 
his  statues  in  the  Baptistery  of  San  Lorenzo — ought 
we  to  regret  them  quite  so  passionately  as  we  do? 
His  patrons  were  apt  to  think  him  an  impossible 
person  to  deal  with.  But  I  suspect  that  there  may 
have  been  a  certain  high  cunning  in  what  appeared 
to  be  a  mere  lovable  fault  of  temperament.  When 
Michael  Angelo  actually  did  bring  a  thing  off,  the 
result  was  not  always  more  than  magnificent.  His 
David  is  magnificent,  but  it  isn't  David.  One  is 
duly  awed,  but,  to  see  the  master  at  his  best,  back 
one  goes  from  the  Accademia  to  that  marvellous 
bleak  Baptistery  which  he  left  that  we  should  see, 
in  the  mind's  eye,  just  that  very  best. 

It  was  there,  some  years  ago,  as  I  stood  before 
the  half-done  marvel  of  the  Night  and  Morning, 
that  I  first  conceived  the  idea  of  a  museum  of 
incomplete  masterpieces.     And   now  I   mean   to 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM  199 

organise  the  thing  on  my  own  account.  The  Bap- 
tistery itself,  so  full  of  unfulfilment,  and  with  such 
a  wealth,  at  present,  of  spare  space,  will  be  the 
ideal  setting  for  my  treasures.  There  be  it  that 
the  public  shall  throng  to  steep  itself  in  the 
splendour  of  possibilities,  beholding,  under  glass, 
and  perhaps  in  excellent  preservation,  Penelope's 
web  and  the  original  designs  for  the  Tower  of 
Babel,  the  draft  made  by  Mr,  Asquith  for  a  re- 
formed House  of  Lords  and  the  notes  jotted  down 
by  the  sometime  German  Emperor  for  a  proclama- 
tion from  Versailles  to  the  citizens  of  Paris.  There 
too  shall  be  the  MS.  of  that  fragmentary  '  Iphigenie' 
which  Racine  laid  aside  so  meekly  at  the  behest 
of  Mile,  de  Treves — '  quoique  celafut  de  mon  mieux' ; 
and  there  an  early  score  of  that  one  unfinished 
Symphony  of  Beethoven's — I  forget  the  number  of 
it,  but  anyhow  it  is  my  favourite.  Among  the 
pictures,  Rossetti's  oil-painting  of  *  Found'  must 
be  ruled  out,  because  we  know  by  more  than  one 
drawing  just  what  it  would  have  been,  and  how 
much  less  good  than  those  drawings.  But  Leo- 
nardo's St.  Sebastian  (even  if  it  isn't  Leonardo's) 
shall  be  there,  and  Whistler's  Miss  Connie  Gilchrist, 
and  numerous  other  pictures  that  I  would  mention 
if  my  mind  were  not  so  full  of  one  picture  to  which, 
if  I  can  find  it  and  acquire  it,  a  special  place  of 
honour  shall  be  given:  a  certain  huge  picture  in 
which  a  life-sized  gentleman,  draped  in  a  white 


200  AND  EVEN  NOW 

mantle,  sits  on  a  fallen  obelisk  and  surveys  the 
ruined  temples  of  the  Campagna  Romana. 

The  reader  knits  his  brow?  Evidently  he  has 
not  just  been  reading  Goethe's  'Travels  in  Italy.* 
I  have.  Or  rather,  I  have  just  been  reading  a 
translation  of  it,  published  in  1885  by  George  Bell 
&  Sons.  I  daresay  it  isn't  a  very  good  translation 
(for  one  has  always  understood  that  Goethe,  de- 
spite a  resistant  medium,  wrote  well — an  accom- 
plishment which  this  translator  hardly  wins  one  to 
suspect).  And  I  daresay  the  painting  I  so  want 
to  see  and  have  isn't  a  very  good  painting.  Wil- 
helm  Tischbein  is  hardly  a  name  to  conjure  with, 
though  in  his  day,  as  a  practitioner  in  the  'his- 
torical '  style,  and  as  a  rapturous  resident  in  Rome, 
Tischbein  did  great  things ;  big  things,  at  any  rate. 
He  did  crowds  of  heroes  in  helmets  looked  down 
at  by  gods  on  clouds;  he  did  centaurs  leaping 
ravines;  Sabine  women;  sieges  of  Troy.  And  he 
did  this  portrait  of  Goethe.  At  least  he  began  it. 
Why  didn't  he  finish  it.f^  That  is  a  problem  as  to 
which  one  can  but  hazard  guesses,  reading  between 
the  lines  of  Goethe's  letters.  The  great  point  is 
that  it  never  was  finished.  By  that  point,  as  you 
read  between  those  lines,  you  will  be  amused  if 
you  are  unkind,  and  worried  if  you  are  humane. 

Worried,  yet  also  pleased.  Goethe  has  more 
than  once  been  described  as  'the  perfect  man.' 
He  was  assuredly  a  personage  on  the  great  scale. 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM  201 

in  the  grand  manner,  gloriously  balanced,  rounded. 
And  it  is  a  fact  that  he  was  not  made  of  marble. 
He  started  with  all  the  disadvantages  of  flesh  and 
blood,  and  retained  them  to  the  last.  Yet  from 
no  angle,  as  he  went  his  long  way,  could  it  be 
plausibly  hinted  that  he  wasn't  sublime.  Endear- 
ing though  failure  always  is,  we  grudge  no  man  a 
moderately  successful  career,  and  glory  itself  we 
will  wink  at  if  it  befall  some  thoroughly  good 
fellow.  But  a  man  whose  career  was  glorious  with- 
out intermission,  decade  after  decade,  does  sorely 
try  our  patience.  He,  we  know,  cannot  have  been 
a  thoroughly  good  fellow.  Of  Goethe  we  are  shy 
for  such  reasons  as  that  he  was  never  injudicious, 
never  lazy,  always  in  his  best  form — and  always  in 
love  with  some  lady  or  another  just  so  much  as 
was  good  for  the  development  of  his  soul  and  his 
art,  but  never  more  than  that  by  a  tittle.  Fate 
decreed  that  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  should  cut 
a  ridiculous  figure  and  so  earn  our  forgiveness. 
Fate  may  have  had  a  similar  plan  for  Goethe;  if 
so,  it  went  all  agley.  Yet,  in  the  course  of  that 
pageant,  his  career,  there  did  happen  just  one 
humiliation — one  thing  that  needed  to  be  hushed 
up.  There  Tischbein's  defalcation  was;  a  chip  in 
the  marble,  a  flaw  in  the  crystal,  just  one  thread 
loose  in  the  great  grand  tapestry. 

Men  of  genius  are  not  quick  judges  of  character. 
Deep  thinking  and  high  imagining  blunt  that  trivial 


202  AND  EVEN  NOW 

instinct  by  which  you  and  I  size  people  up.  Had 
you  and  I  been  at  Goethe's  elbow  when,  in  the 
October  of  1786,  he  entered  Rome  and  was  received 
by  the  excited  Tischbein,  no  doubt  we  should  have 
whispered  in  his  ear,  'Beware  of  that  man?  He 
will  one  day  fail  you.'  Unassisted  Goethe  had  no 
misgivings.  For  some  years  he  had  been  receiving 
letters  from  this  Herr  Tischbein.  They  were  the 
letters  of  a  man  steeped  in  the  Sorrows  of  Werther 
and  in  all  else  that  Goethe  had  written.  This  was 
a  matter  of  course.  But  also  they  were  the  letters 
of  a  man  familiar  with  all  the  treasures  of  Rome. 
All  Italy  was  desirable;  but  it  was  especially 
towards  great  Rome  that  the  soul  of  the  illustrious 
poet,  the  confined  State  Councillor  of  Weimar,  had 
been  ever  yearning.  So  that  when  came  the  longed- 
for  day,  and  the  Duke  gave  leave  of  absence,  and 
Goethe,  closing  his  official  portfolio  with  a  snap 
and  imprinting  a  fervent  but  hasty  kiss  on  the  hand 
of  Frau  von  Stein,  fared  forth  on  his  pilgrimage, 
Tischbein  was  a  prospect  inseparably  bound  up  for 
him  with  that  of  the  Seven  Hills.  Baedeker  had 
not  been  born.  Tischbein  would  be  a  great  saviour 
of  time  and  trouble.  Nor  was  this  hope  unfulfilled. 
Tischbein  was  assiduous,  enthusiastic,  indefati- 
gable. In  the  early  letters  to  Frau  von  Stein,  to 
Herder  and  others,  his  name  is  always  cropping  up 
for  commendation.  'Of  Tischbein  I  have  much  to 
say  and  much  to  boast' — *A  thorough  and  original 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM  203 

German' — 'He  has  always  been  thinking  of  me, 
ever  providing  for  my  wants' — 'In  his  society  all 
my  enjoyments  are  more  than  doubled/  He  was 
thirty-five  years  old  (two  years  younger  than 
Goethe),  and  one  guesses  him  to  have  been  a  stocky 
little  man,  with  those  short  thick  legs  which  denote 
indefatigability.  One  guesses  him  blond  and  rosy, 
very  voluble,  very  guttural,  with  a  wealth  of  force- 
ful but  not  graceful  gesture . 

One  is  on  safer  ground  in  guessing  him  vastly 
proud  of  trotting  Goethe  round.  Such  fame 
throughout  Europe  had  Goethe  won  by  his  works 
that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  travel  incognito. 
Not  that  his  identity  wasn't  an  open  secret,  nor 
that  he  himself  would  have  wished  it  hid.  Great 
artists  are  always  vain.  To  say  that  a  man  is 
vain  means  merely  that  he  is  pleased  with  the 
effect  he  produces  on  other  people.  A  conceited 
man  is  satisfied  with  the  effect  he  produces  on 
himself-  Any  great  artist  is  far  too  perceptive 
and  too  exigent  to  be  satisfied  with  that  effect, 
and  hence  in  vanity  he  seeks  solace.  Goethe,  you 
may  be  sure,  enjoyed  the  hero- worshipful  gaze 
focussed  on  him  from  all  the  tables  of  the  Caffe 
Greco.  But  not  for  adulation  had  he  come  to 
Rome.  Rome  was  what  he  had  come  for;  and 
the  fussers  of  the  coteries  must  not  pester  him  in 
his  golden  preoccupation  with  the  antique  world. 
Tischbein  was  very  useful  in  warding  off  the  profane 


204  AND  EVEN  NOW 

throng — fanning  away  the  flies.  Let  us  hope  he 
was  actuated  solely  by  zeal  in  Goethe's  interest, 
not  by  the  desire  to  swagger  as  a  monopolist. 

Clear  it  is,  though,  that  he  scented  fine  oppor- 
tunities in  Goethe's  relation  to  him.  Suppose  he 
could  rope  his  illustrious  friend  in  as  a  collaborator ! 
He  had  begun  a  series  of  paintings  on  the  theme 
of  primaeval  man.  Goethe  was  much  impressed 
by  these.  Tischbein  suggested  a  great  poem  on 
the  theme  of  primaeval  man — a  volume  of  engrav- 
ings after  Tischbein,  with  running  poetic  commen- 
tary by  Goethe.  '  Indeed,  the  frontispiece  for  such 
a  joint  work,'  writes  Goethe  in  one  of  his  letters, 
*is  already  designed.'  Pushful  Tischbein!  But 
Goethe,  though  he  was  the  most  courteous  of  men, 
was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which  collaborators  are 
made.  'During  our  walks  together' — and  can 
you  not  see  those  two  together,  pacing  up  and 
down  the  groves  of  the  Villa  Pamphili,  or  around 
the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter? — little  Tisch- 
bein gesticulating  and  peering  up  into  Goethe's 
face,  and  Goethe  with  his  hands  clasped  behind 
ever  nodding  in  a  non-committal  manner — '  he  has 
talked  with  me  in  the  hope  of  gaining  me  over  to 
his  views,  and  getting  me  to  enter  upon  the  plan.' 
Goethe  admits  in  another  letter  that  'the  idea  is 
beautiful;  only,'  he  adds,  'the  artist  and  the  poet 
must  be  many  years  together,  in  order  to  carry 
out  and  execute  such  a  work';   and  one  conceives 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM  205 

that  lie  felt  a  certain  lack  of  beauty  in  the  idea  of 
being  with  Tischbein  for  many  years.  'Did  I  not 
fear  to  enter  upon  any  new  tasks  at  present,  I 
might  perhaps  be  tempted.'  This  I  take  to  be  but 
the  repetition  of  a  formula  often  used  in  the  course 
of  those  walks.  In  no  letter  later  than  November 
is  the  scheme  mentioned.  Tischbein  had  evidently 
ceased  to  press  it.  Anon  he  fell  back  on  a  scheme 
less  glorious  but  likelier  to  bear  fruit. 

'Latterly,'  writes  Goethe,  'I  have  observed 
Tischbein  regarding  me;  and  nov/' — note  the 
demure  pride! — 'it  appears  that  he  has  long  cher- 
ished the  idea  of  painting  my  portrait.'  Earnest 
sight-seer  though  he  was,  and  hard  at  work  on  va- 
rious MSS.  in  the  intervals  of  sight-seeing,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  to  sit  for  his  portrait  was  a  new  task 
which  he  did  not  'fear  to  enter  upon  at  present.' 
Nor  need  we  be  surprised.  It  seems  to  be  a  law  of 
nature  that  no  man,  unless  he  has  some  obvious 
physical  deformity,  ever  is  loth  to  sit  for  his  por- 
trait. A  man  may  be  old,  he  may  be  ugly,  he  may 
be  burdened  with  grave  responsibilities  to  the  na- 
tion, and  that  nation  be  at  a  crisis  of  its  history; 
but  none  of  these  considerations,  nor  all  of  them  to- 
gether, will  deter  him  from  sitting  for  his  portrait. 
Depend  on  him  to  arrive  at  the  studio  punctually, 
to  surrender  himself  and  sit  as  still  as  a  mouse,  try- 
ing to  look  his  best  in  whatever  posture  the  painter 
shall  have  selected  as  characteristic,  and  talking 


206  AND  EVEN  NOW 

(if  he  have  leave  to  talk)  with  a  touching  humility 
and  with  a  keen  sense  of  his  privilege  in  being 
allowed  to  pick  up  a  few  ideas  about  art.  To  a 
dentist  or  a  hairdresser  he  surrenders  himself  with- 
out enthusiasm,  even  with  resentment.  But  in  the 
atmosphere  of  a  studio  there  is  something  that 
entrances  him.  Perhaps  it  is  the  smell  of  turpen- 
tine that  goes  to  his  head.  Or  more  likely  it  is 
the  idea  of  immortality.  Goethe  was  one  of  the 
handsomest  men  of  his  day,  and  (remember)  vain, 
and  now  in  the  prime  of  life;  so  that  he  was 
specially  susceptible  to  the  notion  of  being  im- 
mortalised. 'The  design  is  already  settled,  and 
the  canvas  stretched';  and  I  have  no  doubt  that 
in  the  original  German  these  words  ring  like  the 
opening  of  a  ballad.  'The  anchor's  up  and  the 
sail  is  spread,'  as  I  (and  you,  belike)  recited  in 
childhood.  The  ship  in  that  poem  foundered,  if  I 
remember  rightly ;  so  that  the  analogy  to  Goethe's 
words  is  all  the  more  striking. 

It  is  in  this  same  letter  that  the  poet  mentions 
those  three  great  points  which  I  have  already  laid 
before  you :  the  fallen  obelisk  for  him  to  sit  on, 
the  white  mantle  to  drape  him,  and  the  ruined 
temples  for  him  to  look  at.  '  It  will  form  a  beauti- 
ful piece,  but,'  he  sadly  calculates,  'it  will  be  rather 
too  big  for  our  northern  habitations.'  Courage! 
There  will  be  plenty  of  room  for  it  in  the  Baptistery 
of  San  Lorenzo. 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM  207 

i  Meanwhile,  the  work  progressed.  "  A  brief  visit 
to  Naples  and  Sicily  was  part  of  Goethe's  well- 
pondered  campaign,  and  he  was  to  set  forth  from 
Rome  (taking  Tischbein  with  him)  immediately 
after  the  close  of  the  Carnival — but  not  a  moment 
before.  Needless  to  say,  he  had  no  idea  of  flinging 
himself  into  the  Carnival,  after  the  fashion  of  lesser 
and  lighter  tourists.  But  the  Carnival  was  a  great 
phenomenon  to  be  studied.  All-embracing  Goethe, 
remember,  was  nearly  as  keen  on  science  as  on  art. 
He  had  ever  been  patient  in  poring  over  plants 
botanically,  and  fishes  ichthyologically,  and  min- 
erals mineralogically.  And  now,  day  by  day,  he 
studied  the  Carnival  from  a  strictly  carnivalogical 
standpoint,  taking  notes  on  which  he  founded 
later  a  classic  treatise.  His  presence  was  not  needed 
in  the  studio  during  these  days,  for  the  life-sized 
portrait  'begins  already  to  stand  out  from  the 
canvas,'  and  Tischbein  was  now  painting  the  folds 
of  the  mantle,  which  were  swathed  around  a  clay 
figure.  'He  is  working  away  diligently,  for  the 
work  must,  he  says,  be  brought  to  a  certain  point 
before  we  start  for  Naples.'  Besides  the  mantle, 
Tischbein  was  doing  the  Campagna.  I  remember 
that  some  years  ago  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  a 
painter  who  was  neither  successful  nor  talented, 
but  always  buoyant,  told  me  he  was  starting  for 
Italy  next  day.  'I  am  going,'  he  said,  'to  paint 
the  Campagna.     The  Campagna  wants  painting.' 


208  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Tischbein  was  evidently  giving  it  a  good  dose  of 
what  it  wanted.  'It  takes  no  little  time,'  writes 
Goethe  to  Frau  von  Stein,  'merely  to  cover  so 
large  a  field  of  canvas  with  colours.' 

Ash  Wednesday  ushered  itself  in,  and  ushered 
the  Carnival  out.  The  curtain  falls,  rising  a  few 
days  later  on  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Re-enter  Goethe 
and  Tischbein.  Bright  blue  back-cloth.  Inci- 
dental music  of  barcaroles,  etc.  For  a  while,  all 
goes  splendidly  well.  Sane  Quixote  and  aesthetic 
Sancho  visit  the  churches,  the  museums;  visit 
Pompeii;  visit  our  Ambassador,  Sir  William  Hamil- 
ton, that  accomplished  man.  Vesuvius  is  visited 
too;  thrice  by  Goethe,  but  (here,  for  the  first  time 
we  feel  a  vague  uneasiness)  only  once  by  Tischbein. 
To  Goethe,  as  you  may  well  imagine,  Vesuvius  was 
strongly  attractive.  At  his  every  ascent  he  was 
very  brave,  going  as  near  as  possible  to  the  crater, 
which  he  approached  very  much  as  he  had  ap- 
proached the  Carnival,  not  with  any  wish  to  fling 
himself  into  it,  but  as  a  resolute  scientific  inquirer. 
Tischbein,  on  the  other  hand,  merely  disliked  and 
feared  Vesuvius.  He  said  it  had  no  aesthetic  value, 
and  at  his  one  ascent  did  not  accompany  Goethe 
to  the  crater's  edge.  He  seems  to  have  regarded 
Goethe's  bravery  as  rashness.  Here,  you  see,  is  a 
rift,  ever  so  slight,  but  of  evil  omen;  what  seis- 
mologists call  'a  fault.' 

Goethe  was  unconscious  of  its  warning.  Through- 
out his  sojourn  in  Naples  he  seems  to  have  thought 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM  209 

that  Tischbein  in  Naples  was  the  same  as  Tischbein 
in  Rome.  Of  some  persons  it  is  true  that  change 
of  sky  works  no  change  of  soul.  Oddly  enough, 
Goethe  reckoned  himself  among  the  changeable. 
In  one  of  his  letters  he  calls  himself  *  quite  an 
altered  man,'  and  asserts  that  he  is  given  over  to 
'a  sort  of  intoxicated  self-f orgetf ulness ' — a  condi- 
tion to  which  his  letters  testify  not  at  all.  In  a 
later  bulletin  he  is  nearer  the  mark:  *Were  I  not 
impelled  by  the  German  spirit,  and  desire  to  learn 
and  do  rather  than  to  enjoy,  I  should  tarry  a  little 
longer  in  this  school  of  a  light-hearted  and  happy 
life,  and  try  to  profit  by  it  still  more.'  A  truly 
priceless  passage,  this,  with  a  solemnity  transcend- 
ing logic — as  who  should  say,  'Were  I  not  so 
thoroughly  German,  I  should  be  thoroughly  Ger- 
man.' Tischbein  was  of  less  stern  stuff,  and  it  is 
clear  that  Naples  fostered  in  him  a  lightness  which 
Rome  had  repressed.  Goethe  says  that  he  himself 
puzzled  the  people  in  Neapolitan  society:  'Tisch- 
bein pleases  them  far  better.  This  evening  he 
hastily  painted  some  heads  of  the  size  of  life,  and 
about  these  they  disported  themselves  as  strangely 
as  the  New  Zealanders  at  the  sight  of  a  ship  of 
war.'  One  feels  that  but  for  Goethe's  presence 
Tischbein  would  have  cut  New  Zealand  capers  too. 
A  week  later  he  did  an  utterly  astounding  thing. 
He  told  Goethe  that  he  would  not  be  accompanying 
him  to  Sicily. 

He  did  not,  of  course,  say  '  The  novelty  of  your 


210  AND  EVEN  NOW 

greatness  has  worn  off.  Your  solemnity  oppresses 
me.  Be  off,  and  leave  me  to  enjoy  myself  in 
Naples-on-Sea — Naples,  the  Queen  of  Watering 
places!'  He  spoke  of  work  which  he  had  under- 
taken, and  reconnnended  as  travelling  companion 
for  Goethe  a  young  man  of  the  name  of  Kneip. 

Goethe,  we  may  be  sure,  was  restrained  by  pride 
from  any  show  of  wrath.  Pride  compelled  him  to 
make  light  of  the  matter  in  his  epistles  to  the 
Weimarians.  Even  Kniep  he  accepted  with  a  good 
grace,  though  not  without  misgivings.  He  needed 
a  man  who  would  execute  for  him  sketches  and 
paintings  of  all  that  in  the  districts  passed  through 
was  worthy  of  record.  He  had  already  'heard 
Kneip  highly  spoken  of  as  a  clever  draughtsman — 
only  his  industry  was  not  much  commended.'  Our 
hearts  sink.  'I  have  tolerably  studied  his  cha- 
racter, and  think  the  ground  of  this  censure  arises 
rather  from  a  want  of  decision,  which  may  certainly 
be  overcome,  if  we  are  long  together.'  Our  hearts 
sink  lower.  Kniep  will  never  do.  Kniep  will  play 
the  deuce,  we  are  sure  of  it.  And  yet  (such  is 
life)  Kniep  turns  out  very  well.  Throughout  the 
Sicilian  tour  Goethe  gives  the  rosiest  reports  of 
the  young  man's  cheerful  ways  and  strict  attention 
to  the  business  of  sketching.  It  may  be  that  these 
reports  were  coloured  partly  by  a  desire  to  set 
Tischbein  down.  But  there  seems  to  be  no  doubt 
that  Goethe  liked  Kniep  greatly  and  rejoiced  in 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM  211 

the  quantity  and  quality  of  his  work.  At  Palermo, 
one  evening,  Goethe  sat  reading  Homer  and  '  mak- 
ing an  impromptu  translation  for  the  benefit  of 
Kniep,  who  had  well  deserved  by  his  diligent  exer- 
tions this  day  some  agreeable  refreshment  over  a 
glass  of  wine.'  This  is  a  pleasing  little  scene,  and 
is  typical  of  the  whole  tour. 

In  the  middle  of  May,  Goethe  returned  to  Naples. 
And  lo! — Tischbein  was  not  there  to  receive  him. 
Tischbein,  if  you  please,  had  sldpped  back  to  Rome, 
bidding  his  Neapolitan  friends  look  to  his  great 
compatriot.  Pride  again  forbade  Goethe  to  show 
displeasure,  and  again  our  reading  has  to  be  done 
between  the  lines.  In  the  first  week  of  June  he 
was  once  more  in  Rome.  I  can  imagine  with  what 
high  courtesy,  as  though  there  were  nothing  to 
rebuke,  he  treated  Tischbein.  But  it  is  possible 
that  his  manner  would  have  been  less  perfect  had 
the  portrait  not  been  unfinished. 

His  sittings  were  resumed.  It  seems  that  Signora 
Zucchi,  better  known  to  the  world  as  Angelica 
Kauffmann,  had  also  begun  to  paint  him.  But, 
great  as  was  Goethe's  esteem  for  the  mind  of  that 
nice  woman,  he  set  no  store  on  this  fluttering 
attempt  of  hers:  'her  picture  is  a  pretty  fellow, 
to  be  sure,  but  not  a  trace  of  me.'  It  was  by  the 
large  and  firm  'historic'  mode  of  Tischbein  that 
he,  not  exactly  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,  but  in  the 
white  mantle  that  so  well  became  him,  and  on  the 


212  AND  EVEN  NOW 

worthy  throne  of  that  fallen  obelisk,  was  to  be 
handed  down  to  the  gaze  of  future  ages.  Was  to 
be,  yes.  On  June  27th  he  reports  that  Tischbein's 
work  'is  succeeding  happily;  the  likeness  is  strik- 
ing, and  the  conception  pleases  everybody.'  Three 
days  later:  'Tischbein  goes  to  Naples.' 

Incredible!  We  stare  aghast,  as  in  the  presence 
of  some  great  dignitary  from  behind  whom,  by  a 
ribald  hand,  a  chair  is  withdrawn  when  he  is  in 
the  act  of  sitting  down.  Tischbein  had,  as  it  were, 
withdrawn  the  obelisk.  What  was  Goethe  to  do? 
What  can  a  dignitary,  in  such  case,  do?  He  cannot 
turn  and  recriminate.  That  would  but  lower  him 
the  more.  Can  he  behave  as  though  nothing  has 
happened?  Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe  tried 
to  do  so.  And  it  must  have  been  in  support  of 
this  attempt  that  he  consented  to  leave  his  own 
quarters  and  reside  awhile  in  the  studio  of  the 
outgoing  Tischbein.  That  slippery  man  does,  it  is 
true,  seem  to  have  given  out  that  he  would  not 
be  away  very  long;  and  the  prospect  of  his  return 
may  well  have  been  reckoned  in  mitigation  of  his 
going.  Goethe  had  leave  from  the  Duke  of  Weimar 
to  prolong  his  Italian  holiday  till  the  spring  of 
next  year.  ^  It  is  possible  that  Tischbein  really  did 
mean  to  come  back  and  finish  the  picture.  Goethe 
had,  at  any  rate,  no  reason  for  not  hoping. 

*  When  you  think  of  me,  think  of  me  as  happy,' 
he  directs.     And  had  he  not  indeed  reasons  for 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM  213 

happiness?  He  had  the  most  perfect  health,  he 
was  writing  masterpieces,  he  was  in  Rome — Rome 
wliich  no  pilgrim  had  loved  with  a  rapture  deeper 
than  his;  the  wonderful  old  Rome  that  lingered 
on  almost  to  our  own  day,  under  the  conserving 
shadow  of  the  Temporal  Power;  a  Rome  in  which 
the  Emperors  kept  unquestionably  their  fallen  day 
about  them.  No  pilgrim  had  wandered  with  a 
richer  enthusiasm  along  those  highways  and  those 
great  storied  spaces.  It  is  pleasing  to  watch  in 
what  deep  draughts  Goethe  drank  Rome  in.  But 
— but — I  fancy  that  now  in  his  second  year  of  so- 
journ he  tended  to  remain  within  the  city  walls, 
caring  less  than  of  yore  for  the  Campagna;  and  I 
suspect  that  if  ever  he  did  stray  out  there  he  averted 
his  eyes  from  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  ruined 
temple.  Of  one  thing  I  am  sure.  The  huge  canvas 
in  the  studio  had  its  face  to  the  wall.  There  is  never 
a  reference  to  it  by  Goethe  in  any  letter  after  that 
of  June  27.  But  I  surmise  that  its  nearness  con- 
tinually worked  on  him,  and  that  sometimes,  when 
no  one  was  by,  he  all  unwillingly  approached  it, 
he  moved  it  out  into  a  good  light  and,  stepping 
back,  gazed  at  it  for  a  long  time.  And  I  wonder 
that  Tischbein  was  not  shamed,  telepathically,  to 
return. 

What  was  it  that  had  made  Tischbein — not  once, 
but  thrice — abandon  Goethe.'^  We  have  no  right 
to  suppose  he  had  plotted  to  avenge  himself  for 


214  AND  EVEN  NOW 

the  poet's  refusal  to  collaborate  with  him  on  the 
theme  of  primaeval  man.  A  likelier  explanation  is 
merely  that  Goethe,  as  I  have  suggested,  irked 
him.  Forty  years  elapsed  before  Goethe  collected 
his  letters  from  Italy  and  made  a  book  of  them; 
and  in  this  book  he  included — how  magnanimous 
old  men  are ! — several  letters  written  to  him  from 
Naples  by  his  deserter.  These  are  shallow  but 
vivid  documents — the  effusions  of  one  for  whom 
the  visible  world  suffices.  I  take  it  that  Tischbein 
was  an  'historic'  painter  because  no  ambitious 
painter  in  those  days  wasn't.  In  Goethe  the  his- 
toric sense  was  as  innate  as  the  aesthetic;  so  was 
the  ethical  sense;  so  was  the  scientific  sense;  and 
the  three  of  them,  forever  cropping  up  in  his  dis- 
course, may  well  be  understood  to  have  been  too 
much  for  the  simple  Tischbein.  But,  you  ask,  can 
mere  boredom  make  a  man  act  so  cruelly  as  this 
man  acted  .f^  Well,  there  may  have  been  another 
cause,  and  a  more  interesting  one.  I  have  men- 
tioned that  Goethe  and  Tischbein  visited  our 
Ambassador  in  Naples.  His  Excellency  was  at 
that  time  a  widower,  but  his  establishment  was 
already  graced  by  his  future  wife,  Miss  Emma 
Harte,  whose  beauty  is  so  well  known  to  us  all. 
'Tischbein,'  wrote  Goethe  a  few  days  afterwards, 
'is  engaged  in  painting  her.'  Later  in  the  year, 
Tischbein,  soon  after  his  return  to  Naples,  sent  to 
Goethe  a  sketch  for  a  painting  he  had  now  done 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM  215 

of  Miss  Harte  as  Iphigenia  at  the  Sacrificial  Altar. 
Perhaps  he  had  wondered  that  she  should  sacrifice 
herself  to  Sir  William  Hamilton.  .  .  .  '  I  like  Ham- 
ilton uncommonly'  is  a  phrase  culled  from  one  of 
his  letters;  and  when  a  man  is  very  hearty  about 
the  protector  of  a  very  beautiful  woman  one  begins 
to  be  suspicious.  I  do  not  mean  to  suggest  that 
Miss  Harte — though  it  is  true  she  had  not  yet  met 
Nelson — was  fascinated  by  Tischbein.  But  we 
have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Tischbein  was  less 
susceptible  than  Romney. 

Altogether,  it  seems  likely  enough  that  the  future 
Lady  Hamilton's  fine  eyes  were  Tischbein's  main 
reason  for  not  going  to  Sicily,  and  afterwards  for 
his  sudden  exodus  from  Rome.  But  why,  in  this 
case,  did  he  leave  Naples,  why  go  back  to  Rome, 
when  Goethe  was  in  Sicily.''  I  hope  he  went  for 
the  purpose  of  shaking  off  his  infatuation  for  Miss 
Harte.  I  am  loth  to  think  he  went  merely  to  wind 
up  his  affairs  in  Rome.  I  will  assume  that  only 
after  a  sharp  conflict,  in  which  he  fought  hard  on 
the  side  of  duty  against  love,  did  he  relapse  to 
Naples.  But  I  won't  pretend  to  wish  he  had 
finished  that  portrait. 

If  you  know  where  that  portrait  is,  tell  me.  I 
want  it.  I  have  tried  to  trace  it — vainly.  What 
became  of  it.?  I  thought  I  might  find  this  out 
in  George  Henry  Lewes'  'Life  of  Goethe.'  But 
Lewes  had  a  hero-worship  for  Goethe;  he  thought 


216  AND  EVEN  NOW 

him  greater  than  George  Eliot,  and  in  the  whole 
book  there  is  but  one  cold  mention  of  Tischbein's 
name.  Mr.  Oscar  Browning,  in  the  '  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica,'  names  Tischbein  as  Goethe's  '  constant 
companion'  in  the  early  days  at  Rome — and  says 
nothing  else  about  him !  In  fact,  the  hero-worship- 
pers have  evidently  conspired  to  hush  up  the 
affront  to  their  hero.  Even  the  'Penny  Cyclo- 
paedia' (1842),  which  devotes  a  column  to  little 
Tischbein  himself,  and  goes  into  various  details  of 
his  career,  is  silent  about  the  portrait  of  Goethe.  I 
learn  from  that  column  that  Tischbein  became 
director  of  the  Neapolitan  Academy,  at  a  salary  of 
600  ducats,  and  resided  in  Naples  until  the  Revolu- 
tion of  '99,  when  he  returned  in  haste  to  Germany. 
Suppose  he  passed  through  Rome  on  his  way.  A 
homing  fugitive  would  not  pause  to  burden  himself 
with  a  vast  unfinished  canvas.  We  may  be  sure 
the  canvas  remained  in  that  Roman  studio — an  ob- 
ject of  mild  interest  to  successive  occupants.  Is  it 
there  still?  Does  the  studio  itself  still  exist .'^  Belike 
it  has  been  demolished,  with  so  much  else.  What 
became  of  the  expropriated  canvas  .^^  It  wouldn't 
have  been  buried  in  the  new  foundations.  Some 
one  must  have  staggered  away  with  it.  Whither? 
Somewhere,  I  am  sure,  in  some  dark  vault  or 
cellar,  it  languishes. 

Seek  it,  fetch  it  out,  bring  it  to  me  in  triumph. 
You  will  always  find  me  in  the  Baptistery  of  San 


QUIA  IMPERFECTUM  217 

Lorenzo.  But  I  have  formed  so  clear  and  sharp 
a  preconception  of  the  portrait  that  I  am  likely 
to^be  disappointed  at  sight  of  what  you  bring  me. 
I  see  in  my  mind's  eye  every  falling  fold  of  the 
white  mantle;  the  nobly-rounded  calf  of  the  leg 
on  which  rests  the  forearm;  the  high-light  on  the 
black  silk  stocking.  The  shoes,  the  hands,  are 
rather  sketchy,  the  sky  is  a  mere  slab;  the  ruined 
temples  are  no  more  than  adumbrated.  But  the 
expression  of  the  face  is  perfectly,  epitomically, 
that  of  a  great  man  surveying  a  great  alien  scene 
and  gauging  its  import  not  without  a  keen  sense  of 
its  dramatic  conjunction  with  himself — Marius 
on  Carthage  and  Napoleon  before  the  Sphinx, 
Wordsworth  on  London  Bridge  and  Cortes  on  the 
peak  in  Darien,  but  most  of  all,  certainly,  Goethe 
in  the  Campagna.  So,  you  see,  I  cannot  promise 
not  to  be  horribly  let  down  by  Tischbein's  actual 
handiwork.  I  may  even  have  to  take  back  my 
promise  that  it  shall  have  a  place  of  honour.  But 
I  shall  not  utterly  reject  it — unless  on  the  plea  that 
a  collection  of  unfinished  works  should  itself  have 
some  great  touch  of  incompletion. 


SOMETHING  DEFEASIBLE 


SOMETHING   DEFEASIBLE 

July,  igig. 

THE  cottage  had  a  good  trim  garden  in  front 
of  it,  and  another  behind  it.  I  might  not 
have  noticed  it  at  all  but  for  them  and 
their  emerald  greenness.  Yet  itself  (I  saw  when  I 
studied  it)  was  worthy  of  them.  Sussex  is  rich  in 
fine  Jacobean  cottages;  and  their  example,  clearly, 
had  not  been  lost  on  the  builder  of  this  one.  Its 
proportions  had  a  homely  grandeur.  It  was  long 
and  wide  and  low.  It  was  quite  a  yard  long.  It 
had  three  admirable  gables.  It  had  a  substantial 
and  shapely  chimney-stack.  I  liked  the  look  that 
it  had  of  honest  solidity  all  over,  nothing  anywhere 
scamped  in  the  workmanship  of  it.  It  looked  as 
though  it  had  been  built  for  all  time.  But  this  was 
not  so.  For  it  was  built  on  sand,  and  of  sand;  and 
the  tide  was  coming  in. 

Here  and  there  in  its  vicinity  stood  other  build- 
ings. None  of  these  possessed  any  points  of 
interest.  They  were  just  old-fashioned  'castles,' 
of  the  bald  and  hasty  kind  which  I  myself  used 
to  make  in  childhood  and  could  make  even  now — 
conic  affairs,  with  or  without  untidily-dug  moats, 

221 


222  AND  EVEN  NOW 

the  nullities  of  convention  and  of  unskilled  labour. 
When  I  was  a  child  the  charm  of  a  castle  was  not 
in  the  building  of  it,  but  in  jumping  over  it  when 
it  was  built.  Nor  was  this  an  enduring  charm. 
After  a  few  jumps  one  abandoned  one's  castle  and 
asked  one's  nurse  for  a  bun,  or  picked  a  quarrel 
with  some  child  even  smaller  than  oneself,  or  went 
paddling.  As  it  was,  so  it  is.  My  survey  of  the 
sands  this  morning  showed  me  that  forty  years  had 
made  no  difference.  Here  was  plenty  of  anima- 
tion, plenty  of  scurrying  and  gambolling,  of 
laughter  and  tears.  But  the  actual  spadework 
was  a  mere  empty  form.  For  all  but  the  builder 
of  that  cottage.  For  him,  manifestly,  a  passion, 
a  rite. 

He  stood,  spade  in  hand,  contemplating,  from 
one  angle  and  another,  what  he  had  done.  He  was 
perhaps  nine  years  old;  if  so,  small  for  his  age. 
He  had  very  thin  legs  in  very  short  grey  knicker- 
bockers, a  pale  freckled  face,  and  hair  that  matched 
the  sand.  He  was  not  remarkable.  But  with  a 
little  good-will  one  can  always  find  something  im- 
pressive in  anybody.  When  Mr.  Mallaby-Deeley 
won  a  wide  and  very  sudden  fame  in  connexion  with 
Covent  Garden,  an  awe-stricken  reporter  wrote  of 
him  for  The  Daily  Mail,  'he  has  the  eyes  of  a 
dreamer.'  I  believe  that  Mr.  Cecil  Rhodes  really 
had.  So,  it  seemed  to  me,  had  this  little  boy. 
They  were  pale  grey  eyes,  rather  prominent,  with 


SOMETHING  DEFEASIBLE  223 

an  unwavering  light  in  tnem.  I  guessed  that 
they  were  regarding  the  cottage  rather  as  what 
it  should  be  than  as  what  it  had  become.  To 
me  it  appeared  quite  perfect.  But  I  surmised  that 
to  him,  artist  that  he  was,  it  seemed  a  poor  thing 
beside  his  first  flushed  conception. 

He  knelt  down  and,  partly  with  the  flat  of  his 
spade,  partly  with  the  palm  of  one  hand,  redressed 
some  (to  me  obscure)  fault  in  one  of  the  gables. 
He  rose,  stood  back,  his  eyes  slowly  endorsed  the 
amendment.  A  few  moments  later,  very  suddenly, 
he  scudded  away  to  the  adjacent  breakwater 
and  gave  himself  to  the  task  of  scraping  off  it  some 
of  the  short  green  sea-weed  wherewith  he  had 
made  the  cottage's  two  gardens  so  pleasantly 
realistic,  oases  so  refreshing  in  the  sandy  desert. 
Were  the  lawns  somehow  imperfect.'^  Anon,  when 
he  darted  back,  I  saw  what  it  was  that  his  taste 
had  required:  lichen,  moss,  for  the  roof.  Sundry 
morsels  and  patches  of  green  he  deftly  disposed 
in  the  angles  of  roof  and  gables.  His  stock  ex- 
hausted, off  to  the  breakwater  he  darted,  and  back 
again,  to  and  fro  with  the  lightning  directness  of  a 
hermit-bee  maldng  its  nest  of  pollen.  The  low 
walls  that  enclosed  the  two  gardens  were  in  need 
of  creepers.  Little  by  little,  this  grace  was  added 
to  them.     I  stood  silently  watching. 

I  kept  silent  for  fear  of  discommoding  him. 
All  artists — by  which  I  mean,  of  course,  all  good 


224  AND  EVEN  NOW 

artists — are  shy.  They  are  trustees  of  something 
not  entrusted  to  us  others;  they  bear  fragile 
treasure,  not  safe  in  a  josthng  crowd;  they  must 
ever  be  wary.  And  especially  shy  are  those  artists 
whose  work  is  apart  from  words.  A  man  of  letters 
can  mitigate  his  embarrassment  among  us  by  a 
certain  glibness.  Not  so  can  the  man  who  works 
through  the  medium  of  visual  form  and  colour. 
Not  so,  I  was  sure,  could  the  young  architect 
and  landscape-gardener  here  creating.  I  would 
have  moved  away  had  I  thought  my  mere  presence 
was  a  bother  to  him;  but  I  decided  that  it  was 
not:  being  a  grown-up  person,  I  did  not  matter; 
he  had  no  fear  that  I  should  offer  violence  to 
his  work.  It  was  his  cosevals  that  made  him  un- 
easy. Groups  of  these  would  pause  in  their  wild 
career  to  stand  over  him  and  watch  him  in  a  fidgety 
manner  that  hinted  mischief.  Suppose  one  of 
them  suddenly  jumped — on  to  the  cottage! 

Fragile  treasure,  this,  in  a  quite  literal  sense; 
and  how  awfully  exposed!  It  was  spared,  how- 
ever. There  was  even  legible  on  the  faces  of  the 
stolid  little  boys  who  viewed  it  a  sort  of  reluctant 
approval.  Some  of  the  little  girls  seemed  to  be 
forming  with  their  lips  the  word  'pretty,'  but  then 
they  exchanged  glances  with  one  another,  signify- 
ing 'silly.'  No  one  of  either  sex  uttered  any  word 
of  praise.  And  so,  because  artists,  be  they  never 
so  agoraphobious,  do  want  praise,  I  did  at  length 


SOMETHING  DEFEASIBLE  225 

break  my  silence  to  this  one.  '  I  think  it  splendid,' 
I  said  to  him. 

He  looked  up  at  me,  and  down  at  the  cottage. 
*Do  you?'  he  asked,  looking  up  again.  I  assured 
him  that  I  did;  and  to  test  my  opinion  of  him 
I  asked  whether  he  didn't  think  so  too.  He  stood 
the  test  well.  'I  wanted  it  rather  different,'  he 
answered. 

*  In  what  way  different? ' 

He  searched  his  vocabulary.  'More  comf  table,' 
he  found. 

I  knew  now  that  he  was  not  merely  the  architect 
and  builder  of  the  cottage,  but  also,  by  courtesy  of 
imagination,  its  tenant;  but  I  was  tactful  enough 
not  to  let  him  see  that  I  had  guessed  this  deep 
and  delicate  secret.  I  did  but  ask  him,  in  a  quite 
general  way,  how  the  cottage  could  be  better. 
He  said  that  it  ought  to  have  a  porch — 'but 
porches  tumble  in.'  He  was  too  young  an  artist 
to  accept  quite  meekly  the  limits  imposed  by  his 
material.  He  pointed  along  the  lower  edge  of  the 
roof:  'It  ought  to  stick  out,'  he  said,  meaning 
that  it  wanted  eaves.  I  told  him  not  to  worry 
about  that:  it  was  the  sand's  fault,  not  his. 
'What  really  is  a  pity,'  I  said,  'is  that  your  house 
can't  last  for  ever.'  He  was  tracing  now  on  the 
roof,  with  the  edge  of  his  spade,  a  criss-cross  pat- 
tern, to  represent  tiles,  and  he  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten my  presence  and  my  kindness.   'Aren't  you 


226  AND  EVEN  NOW 

sorry,'  I  asked,  raising  my  voice  rather  sharply, 
'that  the  sea  is  coming  in?' 

He  glanced  at  the  sea.  'Yes.'  He  said  this 
with  a  lack  of  emphasis  that  seemed  to  me  noble 
though  insincere. 

The  strain  of  talking  in  words  of  not  more  than 
three  syllables  had  begun  to  tell  on  me.  I  bade 
the  artist  good-bye,  wandered  away  up  the  half- 
dozen  steps  to  the  Parade,  sat  down  on  a  bench, 
and  opened  the  morning  paper  that  I  had  brought 
out  unread.  During  the  War  one  felt  it  a  duty 
to  know  the  worst  before  breakfast;  now  that  the 
English  polity  is  threatened  merely  from  within, 
one  is  apt  to  dally.  .  .  .  Merely  from  within.'' 
Is  that  a  right  phrase  when  the  nerves  of  unrestful 
Labour  in  any  one  land  are  interplicated  with  its 
nerves  in  any  other,  so  vibrantly?  News  of  the 
dismissal  of  an  erring  workman  in  Timbuctoo  is 
enough  nowadays  to  make  us  apprehensive  of  vast 
and  dreadful  effects  on  our  own  immediate  future. 
How  pleasant  if  we  had  lived  our  lives  in  the 
nineteenth  century  and  no  other,  with  the  ground 
all  firm  under  our  feet!  True,  the  people  who 
flourished  then  had  recurring  alarms.  But  their 
alarms  were  quite  needless;  whereas  ours — !  Ours, 
as  I  glanced  at  this  morning's  news  from  Timbuctoo 
and  elsewhere,  seemed  odiously  needful.  Withal, 
our  Old  Nobility  in  its  pleasaunces  was  treading 
once  more  the  old  graceful  measure  which  the  War 


SOMETHING  DEFEASIBLE  227 

arrested;  Bohemia  had  resumed  its  motley;  even 
the  middle  class  was  capering,  very  noticeably.  .  . 
To  gad  about  smiling  as  though  he  were  quite  well, 
thank  you,  or  to  sit  down,  pull  a  long  face,  and 
make  his  soul, — which,  I  wondered,  is  the  better 
procedure  for  a  man  knowing  that  very  soon  he 
will  have  to  undergo  a  vital  operation  at  the 
hands  of  a  wholly  unqualified  surgeon  who  dis- 
likes him  personally?  I  inclined  to  think  the 
gloomier  way  the  less  ghastly.  But  then,  I  asked 
myself,  was  my  analogy  a  sound  one.^^  We  are 
at  the  mercy  of  Labour,  certainly;  and  Labour 
does  not  love  us;  and  Labour  is  not  deeply  versed 
in  statecraft.  But  would  an  unskilled  surgeon, 
however  ill-wishing,  care  to  perform  a  drastic 
operation  on  a  patient  by  whose  death  he  himself 
would  forthwith  perish.'^  Labour  is  wise  enough — 
surely? — not  to  will  us  destruction.  Russia  has 
been  an  awful  example.  Surely !  And  yet,  Labour 
does  not  seem  to  think  the  example  so  awful  as  I  do. 
Queer,  this;  queer  and  disquieting.  I  rose  from 
my  bench,  strolled  to  the  railing,  and  gazed  forth. 
The  unrestful,  the  well-organized  and  minatory 
sea  had  been  advancing  quickly.  It  was  not  very 
far  now  from  the  cottage.  I  thought  of  all  the 
civilisations  that  had  been,  that  were  not,  that 
were  as  though  they  had  never  been.  Must  it  al- 
ways be  thus? — always  the  same  old  tale  of  growth 
and    greatness    and    overthrow,    nothingness?     I 


228  AND  EVEN  NOW 

gazed  at  the  cottage,  all  so  solid  and  seemly,  so  full 
of  endearing  character,  so  like  to  the  'comf  table' 
polity  of  England  as  we  have  known  it.  I  gazed 
away  from  it  to  a  large-ish  castle  that  the  sea  was 
just  reaching.  A  little,  then  quickly  much,  the 
waters  swirled  into  the  moat.  Many  children 
stood  by,  all  a-dance  with  excitement.  The  castle 
was  shedding  its  sides,  lapsing,  dwindling,  land- 
slipping — gone.    O  Nineveh !    And  now  another — 

0  Memphis .'^     Rome.'' — yielded  to  the  cataclysm. 

1  listened  to  the  jubilant  screams  of  the  children. 
What  rapture,  what  wantoning!  Motionless  be- 
side his  work  stood  the  builder  of  the  cottage,  gaz- 
ing seaward,  a  pathetic  little  figure.  I  hoped  the 
other  children  would  have  the  decency  not  to  exult 
over  the  unmaking  of  what  he  had  made  so  well. 
This  hope  was  not  fulfilled.  I  had  not  supposed  it 
would  be.  What  did  surprise  me,  when  anon  the 
sea  rolled  close  up  to  the  cottage,  was  the  comport- 
ment of  the  young  artist  himself.  His  sobriety 
gave  place  to  an  intense  animation.  He  leapt,  he 
waved  his  spade,  he  invited  the  waves  with  wild 
gestures  and  gleeful  cries.  His  face  had  flushed 
bright,  and  now,  as  the  garden  walls  crumbled, 
and  the  paths  and  lawns  were  mingled  by  the 
waters'  influence  and  confluence,  and  the  walls  of 
the  cottage  itself  began  to  totter,  and  the  gables 
sank,  and  all,  all  was  swallowed,  his  leaps  were  so 
high  in  air,   that  they  recalled  to  my  memory 


SOMETHING  DEFEASIBLE  229 

those  of  a  strange  religious  sect  which  once  visited 
London;  and  the  glare  of  his  eyes  was  less  indica- 
tive of  a  dreamer  than  of  a  triumphant  fiend. 

I  myself  was  conscious  of  a  certain  wild  enthu- 
siasm within  me.  But  this  was  less  surprising  for 
that  I  had  not  built  the  cottage,  and  7ny  fancy  had 
not  enabled  me  to  dwell  in  it.  It  was  the  boy's 
own  enthusiasm  that  made  me  feel,  as  never  before, 
how  deep-rooted  in  the  human  breast  the  love  of 
destruction,  of  mere  destruction,  is.  And  I  began 
to  ask  myself:  'Even  if  England  as  we  know  it,  the 
English  polity  of  which  that  cottage  was  a  symbol 
to  me,  were  the  work  of  (say)  Mr.  Robert  Smillie's 
own  unaided  hands' — but  I  waived  the  question 
coming  from  that  hypothesis,  and  other  questions 
that  would  have  followed;  for  I  wished  to  be  happy 
while  I  might. 


'A   CLERGYMAN' 


'A   CLERGYMAN' 

1918. 

FRAGMENTARY,  pale,  momentary;  almost 
nothing;  glimpsed  and  gone;  as  it  were, 
a  faint  human  hand  thrust  up,  never  to 
reappear,  from  beneath  the  rolling  waters  of  Time, 
he  forever  haunts  my  memory  and  solicits  my  weak 
imagination.  Nothing  is  told  of  him  but  that  once, 
abruptly,  he  asked  a  question,  and  received  an 
answer. 

This  was  on  the  afternoon  of  April  7th,  1778, 
at  Streatham,  in  the  well-appointed  house  of  Mr. 
Thrale.  Johnson,  on  the  morning  of  that  day, 
had  entertained  Boswell  at  breakfast  in  Bolt  Court 
and  invited  him  to  dine  at  Thrale  Hall.  The  two 
took  coach  and  arrived  early.  It  seems  that  Sir 
John  Pringle  had  asked  Boswell  to  ask  Johnson 
*what  were  the  best  English  sermons  for  style.* 
In  the  interval  before  dinner,  accordingly,  Boswell 
reeled  off  the  names  of  several  divines  whose  prose 
might  or  might  not  win  commendation,  'Atter- 
bury?'  he  suggested.  'Johnson:  Yes,  Sir,  one 
of  the  best.  Boswell:  Tillotson?  Johnson: 
Why,  not  now.     I  should  not  advise  any  one  to 

233 


234  AND  EVEN  NOW 

imitate  Tillotson's  style;  though  I  don't  know; 
I  should  be  cautious  of  censuring  anything  that 
has  been  applauded  by  so  many  suffrages. — South 
is  one  of  the  best,  if  you  except  his  pecuHarities, 
and  his  violence,  and  sometimes  coarseness  of  lan- 
guage.— Seed  has  a  very  fine  style;  but  he  is  not  very 
theological. — Jortin's  sermons  are  very  elegant. — 
Sherlock's  style,  too,  is  very  elegant,  though  he 
has  not  made  it  his  principal  study. — And  you  may 
add  Smalridge.  Boswell:  I  like  Ogden's  Sermons 
on  Prayer  very  much,  both  for  neatness  of  style 
and  subtil ty  of  reasoning.  Johnson:  I  should 
like  to  read  all  that  Ogden  has  written.  Boswell: 
What  I  want  to  know  is,  what  sermons  afford  the 
best  specimen  of  English  pulpit  eloquence.  John- 
son: We  have  no  sermons  addressed  to  the  pas- 
sions, that  are  good  for  anything;  if  you  mean 
that  kind  of  eloquence.  A  clergyman,  whose 
name  I  do  not  recollect:  Were  not  Dodd's  sermons 
addressed  to  the  passions.^  Johnson:  They  were 
nothing.  Sir,  be  they  addressed  to  what  they  may.' 

The  suddenness  of  it!  Bang! — and  the  rabbit 
that  had  popped  from  its  burrow  was  no  more. 

I  know  not  which  is  the  more  startling — the 
debut  of  the  unfortunate  clergyman,  or  the  in- 
stantaneousness  of  his  end.  Why  hadn't  Boswell 
told  us  there  was  a  clergyman  present?  Well,  we 
may  be  sure  that  so  careful  and  acute  an  artist 
had  some  good  reason.     And  I  suppose  the  clergy- 


*A  CLERGYMAN'  235 

man  was  left  to  take  us  unawares  because  just  so 
did  he  take  the  company.  Had  we  been  told  he 
was  there,  we  might  have  expected  that  sooner  or 
later  he  would  join  in  the  conversation.  He  would 
have  had  a  place  in  our  minds.  We  may  assume 
that  in  the  minds  of  the  company  around  Johnson 
he  had  no  place.  He  sat  forgotten,  overlooked; 
so  that  his  self-assertion  startled  every  one  just 
as  on  Boswell's  page  it  startles  us.  In  Johnson's 
massive  and  magnetic  presence  only  some  very 
remarkable  man,  such  as  Mr.  Burke,  was  sharply 
distinguishable  from  the  rest.  Others  might,  if 
they  had  something  in  them,  stand  out  slightly. 
This  unfortunate  clergyman  may  have  had  some- 
thing in  him,  but  I  judge  that  he  lacked  the  gift 
of  seeming  as  if  he  had.  That  deficiency,  however, 
does  not  account  for  the  horrid  fate  that  befell 
him.  One  of  Johnson's  strongest  and  most  in- 
veterate feelings  was  his  veneration  for  the  Cloth. 
To  any  one  in  Holy  Orders  he  habitually  listened 
with  a  grave  and  charming  deference.  To-day 
moreover,  he  was  in  excellent  good  humour.  He 
was  at  the  Thrales',  where  he  so  loved  to  be;  the 
day  was  fine;  a  fine  dinner  was  in  close  prospect; 
and  he  had  had  what  he  always  declared  to  be  the 
sum  of  human  felicity — a  ride  in  a  coach.  Nor 
was  there  in  the  question  put  by  the  clergyman 
anything  likely  to  enrage  him.  Dodd  was  one 
whom  Johnson  had  befriended  in  adversity;   and 


236  AND  EVEN  NOW 

it  had  always  been  agreed  that  Dodd  In  his  pulpit 
was  very  emotional.  What  drew  the  blasting  flash 
must  have  been  not  the  question  itself,  but  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  asked.  And  I  think  we 
can  guess  what  that  manner  was. 

Say  the  words  aloud :  '  Were  not  Dodd's  sermons 
addressed  to  the  passions.^'  They  are  words 
which,  if  you  have  any  dramatic  and  histrionic 
sense,  cannot  be  said  except  in  a  high,  thin  voice. 

You  may,  from  sheer  perversity,  utter  them  in 
a  rich  and  sonorous  baritone  or  bass.  But  if  you 
do  so,  they  sound  utterly  unnatural.  To  make 
them  carry  the  conviction  of  human  utterance, 
you  have  no  choice :  you  must  pipe  them. 

Remember,  now,  Johnson  was  very  deaf.  Even 
the  people  whom  he  knew  well,  the  people  to  whose 
voices  he  was  accustomed,  had  to  address  him 
very  loudly.  It  is  probable  that  this  unregarded, 
young,  shy  clergyman,  when  at  length  he  suddenly 
mustered  courage  to  'cut  in,'  let  his  high,  thin 
voice  soar  too  high,  insomuch  that  it  was  a  kind 
of  scream.  On  no  other  hypothesis  can  we  account 
for  the  ferocity  with  which  Johnson  turned  and 
rended  him.  Johnson  didn't,  we  may  be  sure, 
mean  to  be  cruel.  The  old  lion,  startled,  just 
struck  out  blindly.  But  the  force  of  paw  and 
claws  was  not  the  less  lethal.  We  have  endless 
testimony  to  the  strength  of  Johnson's  voice;  and 
the   very   cadence   of   those   words,    'They   were 


'A  CLERGYMAN'  237 

nothing,  Sir,  be  they  addressed  to  what  they  may,' 
convinces  me  that  the  old  lion's  jaws  never  gave 
forth  a  louder  roar.  Boswell  does  not  record  that 
there  was  any  further  conversation  before  the 
announcement  of  dinner.  Perhaps  the  whole  com- 
pany had  been  temporarily  deafened.  But  I  am 
not  bothering  about  them.  My  heart  goes  out  to 
the  poor  dear  clergyman  exclusively. 

I  said  a  moment  ago  that  he  was  young  and 
shy;  and  I  admit  that  I  slipped  those  epithets 
in  without  having  justified  them  to  you  by  due 
process  of  induction.  Your  quick  mind  will  have 
already  supplied  what  I  omitted.  A  man  with  a 
high,  thin  voice,  and  without  power  to  impress 
any  one  with  a  sense  of  his  importance,  a  man  so 
null  in  effect  that  even  the  retentive  mind  of  Bos- 
well did  not  retain  his  very  name,  would  assuredly 
not  be  a  self-confident  man.  Even  if  he  were  not 
naturally  shy,  social  courage  would  soon  have  been 
sapped  in  him,  and  would  in  time  have  been 
destroyed,  by  experience.  That  he  had  not  yet 
given  himself  up  as  a  bad  job,  that  he  still  had 
faint  wild  hopes,  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  he  did 
snatch  the  opportunity  for  asking  that  question. 
He  must,  accordingly,  have  been  young.  Was  he 
the  curate  of  the  neighbouring  church?  I  think 
so.  It  would  account  for  his  having  been  invited. 
I  see  him  as  he  sits  there  listening  to  the  great 
Doctor's  pronouncement  on  Atterbury  and  those 


238  AND  EVEN  NOW 

others.  He  sits  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  in  the  back- 
ground. He  has  colourless  eyes,  fixed  earnestly, 
and  a  face  almost  as  pale  as  the  clerical  bands 
beneath  his  somewhat  receding  chin.  His  forehead 
is  high  and  narrow,  his  hair  mouse-coloured.  His 
hands  are  clasped  tight  before  him,  the  knuckles 
standing  out  sharply.  This  constriction  does  not 
mean  that  he  is  steeling  himself  to  speak.  He  has 
no  positive  intention  of  speaking.  Very  much, 
nevertheless,  is  he  wishing  in  the  back  of  his  mind 
that  he  could  say  something — something  whereat 
the  great  Doctor  would  turn  on  him  and  say,  after 
a  pause  for  thought,  '  Why  yes.  Sir.  That  is  most 
justly  observed'  or  'Sir,  this  has  never  occurred 
to  me.  I  thank  you ' — thereby  fixing  the  observer 
forever  high  in  the  esteem  of  all.  And  now  in  a 
flash  the  chance  presents  itself.  '  We  have,'  shouts 
Johnson,  'no  sermons  addressed  to  the  passions, 
that  are  good  for  anything.'  I  see  the  curate's 
frame  quiver  with  sudden  impulse,  and  his  mouth 
fly  open,  and — no,  I  can't  bear  it,  I  shut  my  eyes 
and  ears.  But  audible,  even  so,  is  something  shrill, 
followed  by  something  thunderous. 

Presently  I  re-open  my  eyes.  The  crimson  has 
not  yet  faded  from  that  young  face  yonder,  and 
slowly  down  either  cheek  falls  a  glistening  tear. 
Shades  of  Atterbury  and  Tillotson!  Such  weak- 
ness shames  the  Established  Church.  What  would 
Jortin  and  Smalridge  have  said.^* — what  Seed  and 


'A  CLERGYMAN'  239 

South?  And,  by  the  way,  who  were  they,  these 
worthies?  It  is  a  solemn  thought  that  so  little  is 
conveyed  to  us  by  names  which  to  the  palaeo- 
Georgians  conveyed  so  much.  We  discern  a  dim, 
composite  picture  of  a  big  man  in  a  big  wig  and 
a  billowing  black  gown,  with  a  big  congregation 
beneath  him.  But  we  are  not  anxious  to  hear 
what  he  is  saying.  We  know  it  is  all  very  elegant. 
We  know  it  will  be  printed  and  be  bound  in  finely 
tooled  full  calf,  and  no  palaeo-Georgian  gentleman's 
library  will  be  complete  without  it.  Literate  people 
in  those  days  were  comparatively  few;  but,  bating 
that,  one  may  say  that  sermons  were  as  much  in 
request  as  novels  are  to-day.  I  wonder,  will  man- 
kind continue  to  be  capricious?  It  is  a  very 
solemn  thought  indeed  that  no  more  than  a  hun- 
dred-and-fifty  years  hence  the  novelists  of  our  time, 
with  all  their  moral  and  political  and  sociological 
outlook  and  influence,  will  perhaps  shine  as  indis- 
tinctly as  do  those  old  preachers,  with  all  their 
elegance,  now.  *  Yes,  Sir,'  some  great  pundit  may 
be  telling  a  disciple  at  this  moment,  *  Wells  is  one  of 
the  best.  Galsworthy  is  one  of  the  best,  if  you 
except  his  concern  for  delicacy  of  style.  Mrs. 
Ward  has  a  very  firm  grasp  of  problems,  but  is  not 
very  creational. — Caine's  books  are  very  edifying. 
I  should  like  to  read  all  that  Caine  has  written. 
Mi«s  Corelli,  too,  is  very  edifying. — And  you  may 
add  Upton  Sinclair.'  'What  I  want  to  know,'  says 


240  AND  EVEN  NOW 

the  disciple,  'is,  what  English  novels  may  be  se- 
lected as  specially  enthralling.'  The  pundit  an- 
swers :  *  We  have  no  novels  addressed  to  the  pas- 
sions that  are  good  for  anything,  if  you  mean  that 
kind  of  enthralment.'  And  here  some  poor  wretch 
(whose  name  the  disciple  will  not  remember) 
inquires:  *Are  not  Mrs.  Glyn's  novels  addressed 
to  the  passions?'  and  is  in  due  form  annihilated. 
Can  it  be  that  a  time  will  come  when  readers  of 
this  passage  in  our  pundit's  life  will  take  more 
interest  in  the  poor  nameless  wretch  than  in  all  the 
bearers  of  those  great  names  put  together,  being  no 
more  able  or  anxious  to  discriminate  between  (say) 
Mrs.  Ward  and  Mr.  Sinclair  than  we  are  to  set 
Ogden  above  Sherlock,  or  Sherlock  above  Ogden? 
It  seems  impossible.  But  we  must  remember  that 
things  are  not  always  what  they  seem. 

Every  man  illustrious  in  his  day,  however  much 
he  may  be  gratified  by  his  fame,  looks  with  an 
eager  eye  to  posterity  for  a  continuance  of  past 
favours,  and  would  even  live  the  remainder  of  his 
life  in  obscurity  if  by  so  doing  he  could  insure  that 
future  generations  would  preserve  a  correct  atti- 
tude towards  him  forever.  This  is  very  natural 
and  human,  but,  like  so  many  very  natural  and 
human  things,  very  silly.  Tillotson  and  the  rest 
need  not,  after  all,  be  pitied  for  our  neglect  of  them. 
They  either  know  nothing  about  it,  or  are  above 
such  terrene  trifles.     Let  us  keep  our  pity  for  the 


*A  CLERGYMAN'  241 

great  seething  mass  of  divines  who  were  not 
elegantly  verbose,  and  had  no  fun  or  glory  while 
they  lasted.  And  let  us  keep  a  specially  large  por- 
tion for  one  whose  lot  was  so  much  worse  than 
merely  undistinguished.  If  that  nameless  curate 
had  not  been  at  the  Thrales'  that  day,  or,  being 
there,  had  kept  the  silence  that  so  well  became  him, 
his  life  would  have  been  drab  enough  in  all  con- 
science. But  at  any  rate  an  unpromising  career 
would  not  have  been  nipped  in  the  bud.  And  that 
is  what  in  fact  happened,  I'm  sure  of  it.  A  robust 
man  might  have  rallied  under  the  blow.  Not  so  our 
friend.  Those  who  knew  him  in  infancy  had  not  ex- 
pected that  he  would  be  reared.  Better  for  him  had 
they  been  right.  It  is  well  to  grow  up  and  be  or- 
dained, but  not  if  you  are  delicate  and  very  sensi- 
tive, and  shall  happen  to  annoy  the  greatest,  the 
most  stentorian  and  roughest  of  contemporary  per- 
sonages. *A  Clergyman'  never  held  up  his  head  or 
smiled  again  after  the  brief  encounter  recorded  for 
us  by  Boswell.  He  sank  into  a  rapid  decline.  Be- 
fore the  next  blossoming  of  Thrale  Hall's  almond 
trees  he  was  no  more.  I  like  to  think  that  he  died 
forgiving  Dr,  Johnson. 


THE    CRIME 


THE     CRIME 

ig2o. 

ON  a  bleak  wet  stormy  afternoon  at  the  outset 
of  last  year's  Spring,  I  was  in  a  cottage, 
all  alone,  and  knowing  that  I  must  be  all 
alone  till  evening.  It  was  a  remote  cottage,  in  a 
remote  county,  and  had  been  'let  furnished'  by 
its  owner.  My  spirits  are  easily  affected  by 
weather,  and  I  hate  solitude.  And  I  dislike  to  be 
master  of  things  that  are  not  mine.  'Be  careful 
not  to  break  us,'  say  the  glass  and  china.  'You'd 
better  not  spill  ink  on  me,'  growls  the  carpet. 
'None  of  your  dog's-earing,  thumb-marking,  back- 
breaking  tricks  here! '  snarl  the  books. 

The  books  in  this  cottage  looked  particularly 
disagreeable — horrid  little  upstarts  of  this  and  that 
scarlet  or  cerulean  'series'  of  'standard'  authors. 
Having  gloomily  surveyed  them,  I  turned  my  back 
on  them,  and  watched  the  rain  streaming  down  the 
latticed  w"ndow,  whose  panes  seemed  likely  to  be 
shattered  at  any  moment  by  the  wind.  I  have 
known  men  who  constantly  visit  the  Central 
Criminal  Court,  visit  also  the  scenes  where  famous 
crimes  were  committed,  form  their  own  theories  of 

245 


246  AND  EVEN  NOW 

those  crimes,  collect  souvenirs  of  those  crimes,  and 
call  themselves  Criminologists.  As  for  me,  my 
interest  in  crime  is,  alas,  merely  morbid.  I  did  not 
know,  as  those  others  would  doubtless  have  known, 
that  the  situation  in  which  I  found  myself  was 
precisely  of  the  kind  most  conducive  to  the  darkest 
deeds.  I  did  but  bemoan  it,  and  think  of  Lear  in 
the  hovel  on  the  heath.  The  wind  howled  in  the 
chimney,  and  the  rain  had  begun  to  sputter  right 
down  it,  so  that  the  fire  was  beginning  to  hiss  in  a 
very  sinister  manner.  Suppose  the  fire  went  out! 
It  looked  as  if  it  meant  to.  I  snatched  the  pair  of 
bellows  that  hung  beside  it.  I  plied  them  vigor- 
ously. 'Now  mind! — not  too  vigorously.  We 
aren't  yours!'  they  wheezed.  I  handled  them 
more  gently.  But  I  did  not  release  them  till  they 
had  secured  me  a  steady  blaze. 

I  sat  down  before  that  blaze.  Despair  had  been 
warded  off.  Gloom,  however,  remained;  and 
gloom  grew.  I  felt  that  I  should  prefer  any  one's 
thoughts  to  mine.  I  rose,  I  returned  to  the  books. 
A  dozen  or  so  of  those  which  were  on  the  lowest  of 
the  three  shelves  were  full-sized,  were  octavo, 
looked  as  though  they  had  been  bought  to  be 
read.  I  would  exercise  my  undoubted  right  to 
read  one  of  them.  Which  of  them?  I  gradually 
decided  on  a  novel  by  a  well-known  writer  whose 
works,  though  I  had  several  times  had  the  honour 
of  meeting  her,  were  known  to  me  only  by  repute. 


THE  CRIME  247 

I  knew  nothing  of  them  that  was  not  good.  The 
lady's  'output'  had  not  been  at  all  huge,  and  it 
was  agreed  that  her  'level'  was  high.  I  had 
always  gathered  that  the  chief  characteristic  of 
her  work  was  its  great  'vitality.'  The  book  in  my 
hand  was  a  third  edition  of  her  latest  novel,  and  at 
the  end  of  it  were  numerous  press-notices,  at  which 
I  glanced  for  confirmation.  'Immense  vitality,' 
yes,  said  one  critic.  'Full,'  said  another,  'of  an 
intense  vitality.'  'A  book  that  will  live,'  said  a 
third.  How  on  earth  did  he  know  that.f^  I  was, 
however,  very  willing  to  believe  in  the  vitality  of 
this  writer  for  all  present  purposes.  Vitality  was  a 
thing  in  which  she  herself,  her  talk,  her  glance,  her 
gestures,  abounded.  She  and  they  had  been,  I 
remembered,  rather  too  much  for  me.  The  first 
time  I  met  her,  she  said  something  that  I  lightly 
and  mildly  disputed.  On  no  future  occasion  did  I 
stem  any  opinion  of  hers.  Not  that  she  had  been 
rude.  Far  from  it.  She  had  but  in  a  sisterly, 
brotherly  way,  and  yet  in  a  way  that  was  filially 
eager  too,  asked  me  to  explain  my  point.  I  did 
my  best.  She  was  all  attention.  But  I  was 
conscious  that  my  best,  under  her  eye,  was  not 
good.  She  was  quick  to  help  me:  she  said  for  me 
just  what  I  had  tried  to  say,  and  proceeded  to  show 
me  just  why  it  was  wrong.  I  smiled  the  gallant 
smile  of  a  man  who  regards  women  as  all  the  more 
adorable  because  logic  is  not  their  strong  point. 


248  AND  EVEN  NOW 

bless  them!  She  asked — not  aggressively,  but 
strenuously,  as  one  who  dearly  loves  a  joke — what 
I  was  smiling  at.  Altogether,  a  chastening  en- 
counter; and  my  memory  of  it  was  tinged  with  a 
feeble  resentment.  How  she  had  scored.  No  man 
likes  to  be  worsted  in  argument  by  a  woman.  And 
I  fancy  that  to  be  vanquished  by  a  feminine  writer 
is  the  kind  of  defeat  least  of  all  agreeable  to  a  man 
who  writes.  A  'sex  war,'  we  are  often  told  is  to 
be  one  of  the  features  of  the  world's  future- 
women  demanding  the  right  to  do  men's  work,  and 
men  refusing,  resisting,  counter-attacking.  It  seems 
likely  enough.  One  can  believe  anything  of  the 
world's  future.  Yet  one  conceives  that  not  all 
men,  if  this  particular  evil  come  to  pass,  will  stand 
packed  shoulder  to  shoulder  against  all  women. 
One  does  not  feel  that  the  dockers  will  be  very 
bitter  against  such  women  as  want  to  be  miners,  or 
the  plumbers  frown  much  upon  the  would-be 
steeple- Jills.  I  myself  have  never  had  my  sense  of 
fitness  jarred,  nor  a  spark  of  animosity  roused  in 
me,  by  a  woman  practising  any  of  the  fine  arts — 
except  the  art  of  writing.  That  she  should  write  a 
few  little  poems  or  pensees,  or  some  impressions  of 
a  trip  in  a  dahabieh  as  far  as  (say)  Biskra,  or  even 
a  short  story  or  two,  seems  to  me  not  wholly  amiss, 
even  though  she  do  such  things  for  publication. 
But  that  she  should  be  an  habitual,  professional 
author,  with  a  passion  for  her  art,  and  a  fountain- 


THE  CRIME  249 

pen  and  an  agent,  and  sums  down  in  advance  of 
royalties  on  sales  in  Canada  and  Australia,  and  a 
profound  knowledge  of  human  character,  and  an 
essentially  sane  outlook,  is  somehow  incongruous 
with  my  notions — my  mistaken  notions,  if  you  will 
— of  what  she  ought  to  be. 

'  Has  a  profound  knowledge  of  human  character, 
and  an  essentially  sane  outlook'  said  one  of  the 
critics  quoted  at  the  end  of  the  book  that  I  had 
chosen.  The  wind  and  the  rain  in  the  chimney  had 
not  abated,  but  the  fire  was  bearing  up  bravel^'. 
So  would  I.  I  would  read  cheerfully  and  without 
prejudice.  I  poked  the  fire  and,  pushing  my  chair 
slightly  back,  lest  the  heat  should  warp  the  book's 
covers,  began  Chapter  I.  A  woman  sat  writing  in 
a  summer-house  at  the  end  of  a  small  garden  that 
overlooked  a  great  valley  in  Surrey.  The  descrip- 
tion of  her  was  calculated  to  make  her  very  admir- 
able— a  thorough  woman,  not  strictly  beautiful,  but 
likely  to  be  thought  beautiful  by  those  who  knew 
her  well;  not  dressed  as  though  she  gave  much 
heed  to  her  clothes,  but  dressed  in  a  fashion  that 
exactly  harmonised  with  her  special  type.  Her  pen 
'travelled'  rapidly  across  the  foolscap,  and  while 
it  did  so  she  was  described  in  more  and  more  detail. 
But  at  length  she  came  to  a  '  knotty  point '  in  what 
she  was  writing.  She  paused,  she  pushed  back  the 
hair  from  her  temples,  she  looked  forth  at  the 
valley;   and  now  the  landscape  was  described,  but 


250  AND  EVEN  NOW 

not  at  all  exhaustively,  it,  for  the  writer  soon 
overcame  her  difficulty,  and  her  pen  travelled 
faster  than  ever,  till  suddenly  there  was  a  cry  of 
'Mammy!'  and  in  rushed  a  seven-year-old  child, 
in  conjunction  with  whom  she  was  more  than  ever 
admirable;  after  which  the  narrative  skipped  back 
across  eight  years,  and  the  woman  became  a  girl 
giving  as  yet  no  token  of  future  eminence  in  litera- 
ture, but — I  had  an  impulse  which  I  obeyed  almost 
before  I  was  conscious  of  it. 

Nobody  could  have  been  more  surprised  than  I 
was  at  what  I  had  done — done  so  neatly,  so  quietly 
and  gently.  The  book  stood  closed,  upright,  with 
its  back  to  me,  just  as  on  a  book-shelf,  behind  the 
bars  of  the  grate.  There  it  was.  And  it  gave 
forth,  as  the  flames  crept  up  the  blue  cloth  sides  of 
it,  a  pleasant  though  acrid  smell.  My  astonish- 
ment had  passed,  giving  place  to  an  exquisite 
satisfaction.  How  pottering  and  fumbling  a  thing 
was  even  the  best  kind  of  written  criticism!  I 
understood  the  contempt  felt  by  the  man  of  action 
for  the  man  of  words.  But  what  pleased  me  most 
was  that  at  last,  actually,  I,  at  my  age,  I  of  all 
people,  had  committed  a  crime — was  guilty  of  a 
crime.  I  had  power  to  revoke  it.  I  might  write 
to  my  bookseller  for  an  unburnt  copy,  and  place  it 
on  the  shelf  where  this  one  had  stood — this 
gloriously  glowing  one.  I  would  do  nothing  of  the 
sort.     What  I  had  done  I  had  done.     I  would  wear 


THE  CRIME  251 

forever  on  my  conscience  the  white  rose  of  theft 
and  the  red  rose  of  arson.  If  hereafter  the  owner 
of  this  cottage  happened  to  miss  that  volume — let 
him!  If  he  were  fool  enough  to  write  to  me  about 
it,  would  I  share  my  grand  secret  with  him?  No. 
Gently,  with  his  poker,  I  prodded  that  volume 
further  among  the  coals.  The  all-but-consumed 
binding  shot  forth  little  tongues  of  bright  colour — 
flamelets  of  sapphire,  amethyst,  emerald.  Charm- 
ing! Could  even  the  author  herself  not  admire 
them?  Perhaps.  Poor  woman! — I  had  scored 
now,  scored  so  perfectly  that  I  felt  myself  to  be 
almost  a  brute  while  I  poked  off  the  loosened  black 
outer  pages  and  led  the  fire  on  to  pages  that  were 
but  pale  brown. 

These  were  quickly  devoured.  But  it  seemed  to 
me  that  whenever  I  left  the  fire  to  forage  for  itself 
it  made  little  headway.  I  pushed  the  book  over 
on  its  side.  The  flames  closed  on  it,  but  presently, 
licking  their  lips,  fell  back,  as  though  they  had  had 
enough.  I  took  the  tongs  and  put  the  book 
upright  again,  and  raked  it  fore  and  aft.  It  seemed 
almost  as  thick  as  ever.  With  poker  and  tongs  I 
carved  it  into  two,  three  sections — the  inner  pages 
flashing  white  as  when  they  were  sent  to  the 
binders.  Strange!  Aforetime,  a  book  was  burnt 
now  and  again  in  the  market-place  by  the  common 
hangman.  Was  he,  I  wondered,  paid  by  the  hour? 
'  I  had  always  supposed  the  thing  quite  easy  for  him  , 


252  AND  EVEN  NOW 

— a  bright  little,  brisk  little  conflagration,  and  so 
home.  Perhaps  other  books  were  less  resistant 
than  this  one?  I  began  to  feel  that  the  critics 
were  more  right  than  they  knew.  Here  was  a  book 
that  had  indeed  an  intense  vitality,  and  an  im- 
mense vitality.  It  was  a  book  that  would  live — do 
what  one  might.  I  vowed  it  should  not.  I  sub- 
divided it,  spread  it,  redistributed  it.  Ever  and 
anon  my  eye  would  be  caught  by  some  sentence  or 
fragment  of  a  sentence  in  the  midst  of  a  charred 
page  before  the  flames  crept  over  it,  'Iways 
loathed  you,  bu',  I  remember;  and  'ning.  Tolstoi 
was  right.'  Who  had  always  loathed  whom.^^  And 
what,  what,  had  Tolstoi  been  right  about  .f*  I  had 
an  absurd  but  genuine  desire  to  know.  Too  late! 
Confound  the  woman! — she  was  scoring  again.  I 
furiously  drove  her  pages  into  the  yawning  crimson 
jaws  of  the  coals.  Those  jaws  had  lately  been 
golden.  Soon,  to  mj^  horror,  they  seemed  to  be 
growing  grey.  They  seemed  to  be  closing — on 
nothing.  Flakes  of  black  paper,  full-sized  layers  of 
paper  brown  and  white,  began  to  hide  them  from 
me  altogether.  I  sprinkled  a  boxful  of  wax 
matches.  I  resumed  the  bellows.  I  lunged  with  the 
poker.  I  held  a  newspaper  over  the  whole  grate. 
I  did  all  that  inspiration  could  suggest,  or  skill  ac- 
complish. Vainly.  The  fire  went  out — darkly, 
dismally,  gradually,  quite  out. 

How  she  had  scored  again!     But  she  did  not 


THE  CRIME  253 

know  it.  I  felt  no  bitterness  against  her  as  I  lay 
back  in  my  chair,  inert,  listening  to  the  storm  that 
was  still  raging.  I  blamed  only  myself.  I  had 
done  wrong.  The  small  room  became  very  cold. 
Whose  fault  was  that  but  my  own?  I  had  done 
wrong  hastily,  but  had  done  it  and  been  glad  of 
it.  I  had  not  remembered  the  words  a  wise  king 
wrote  long  ago,  that  the  lamp  of  the  wicked  shall 
be  put  out,  and  that  the  way  of  trangressors  is 
hard. 


IN    HOMES    UNBLEST 


IN    HOMES     UNBLEST 

1919. 

NOTHING  is  more  pleasant  than  to  see 
suddenly  endowed  with  motion  a  thing 
stagnant  by  nature.  The  hat  that  on 
the  head  of  the  man  in  the  street  is  nothing  to  us, 
how  much  it  is  if  it  be  animated  by  a  gust  of  wind ! 
There  is  no  churl  that  does  not  rejoice  with  it  in  its 
strength,  and  in  the  swiftness  and  cunning  that 
baffle  its  pursuer,  who,  he  too,  when  the  chase  is 
over,  bears  it  no  ill  will  at  all  for  its  escapade.  I 
know  families  that  have  sat  for  hours,  for  hours 
after  bedtime,  mute,  in  a  dim  light,  pressing  a  table 
with  their  finger-tips,  and  ever  bringing  to  bear  the 
full  force  of  their  minds  on  it,  in  the  unconquerable 
hope  that  it  would  move.  Conversely,  nothing  is 
more  dismal  than  to  see  set  in  permanent  rigidness 
a  thing  whose  aspect  is  linked  for  us  with  the  idea  of 
great  mobility.  Even  the  blithest  of  us  and  least 
easily  depressed  would  make  a  long  detour  to  avoid 
a  stuffed  squirrel  or  a  case  of  pinned  butterflies. 
And  you  can  well  imagine  with  what  a  sinking  of 
the  heart  I  beheld,  this  morning,  on  a  road  near 
the  coast  of  Norfolk,  a  railway -car  without  wheels. 

257 


258  AND  EVEN  NOW 

Without  wheels  though  it  was,  it  had  motion — 
of  a  Idnd;  of  a  kind  worse  than  actual  stagnation. 
Mounted  on  a  very  long  steam-lorry  that  groaned 
and  panted,  it  very  slowly  passed  me.  I  noted 
that  two  of  its  compartments  were  marked  first, 
the  rest  third.  And  in  some  of  them,  I  noted,  you 
might  smoke.  But  of  this  opportunity  you  were 
not  availing  yourself.  All  the  compartments,  the 
cheap  and  the  dear  alike,  were  vacant.  They 
were  transporting  air  only — and  this  (I  conceived) 
abominable.  The  sun  slanted  fiercely  down  on  the 
old  iron  roof,  the  old  wooden  walls,  the  dingy  shut 
windows.  The  fume  and  grime  of  a  thousand 
familiar  tunnels,  of  year  after  year  of  journeys  by 
night,  journeys  by  day,  from  time  immemorial, 
seemed  to  have  invested  the  whole  structure  with 
a  character  that  shrank  from  the  sun's  scrutiny  and 
from  the  nearness  of  sea  and  fields.  Fuliginous, 
monstrous,  slowly,  shamefully,  the  thing  went  by — 
to  what  final  goal? — in  the  lovely  weather. 

There  attended  it,  besides  the  driver  of  the  lorry, 
a  straggling  retinue  of  half-a-dozen  men  on  foot — 
handy-looking  mechanics,  very  dusty.  I  should 
have  liked  to  question  one  or  another  of  these  as 
to  their  mission.  But  I  was  afraid  to  do  so.  There 
is  an  art  of  talldng  acceptably  to  people  who  do  not 
regard  themselves  as  members  of  one's  own  class; 
and  I  have  never  acquired  it.  I  suppose  the  first 
step  is  to  forget  that  any  art  is  needed — to  forget 


IN  HOMES  UNBLEST  259 

that  one  must  not  be  so  wildly  cordial  for  fear  of 
seeming  to  'condescend,'  nor  be  more  than  a 
trifle  saturnine,  either,  for  the  same  motive.  Or 
am  I  wrong?  The  whole  thing  is  a  mystery  to  me. 
All  I  know  is  that  if  I  asked  those  mechanics 
what  they  were  doing  with  that  railway  car  they 
would  have  seemed  to  suspect  me  of  meaning  that 
it  was  my  property  and  that  they  had  stolen  it. 
Or  perhaps  they  would  have  seemed  merely  to 
resent  my  idle  curiosity.  If  so,  why  not.^^  When 
I  walk  abroad  with  a  sheaf  of  manuscript  in  Hiy 
hand,  mechanics  do  not  stop  me  to  ask  'What's 
that?  What's  it  about?  Who's  going  to  publish 
it?'  Nor  is  this  because,  times  havmg  changed 
so,  they  are  afraid  of  seeming  to  condescend. 
They  always  did  mind  their  own  business.  And 
now  that  their  own  business  is  so  much  more 
lucrative  than  mine  they  still  follow  that  golden 
rule. 

I  stood  gazing  back  at  the  procession  till  it  dis- 
appeared round  a  bend  of  the  road.  Its  bequest  of 
dust  and  smoke  was  quickly  spent  by  a  prodigal 
young  breeze.  Landscape  and  seascape  were  re- 
indued  with  their  full  amenities.  Ruskin  would 
have  been  pleased.  So  indeed  was  I;  but  that 
railway -car  (in  which,  it  romantically  struck  me,  I 
myself  might  once,  might  frequently,  have  trav- 
elled) was  still  upmost  In  my  brooding  mind.  To 
what  manner  of  wretched  end  was  it  destined?  No 


260  AND  EVEN  NOW 

end  would  have  seemed  bad  enough  for  it  to  Rus- 
kin.  But  I  was  born  late  enough  to  acquiesce  in 
railways  and  in  all  that  pertains  to  them.  And 
now,  since  the  success  of  motor-cars  (those  far 
greater,  because  unrestricted,  bores),  railways  have 
taken  on  for  me  some  such  charm  as  the  memory  of 
the  posting  coaches  had  for  the  greybeards  of  my 
boyhood,  some  such  charm  as  aeroplanes  may  in 
the  fulness  of  time  foist  down  for  us  on  motor-cars. 
*But  I  rove,'  like  Sir  Thomas  More.  And  I  seem 
to  think  that  a  cheap  literary  allusion  will  make 
you  excuse  that  vice.  To  resume  my  breathless 
narrative:  I  decided  that  I  would  slowly  follow  the 
tracks  of  the  lorry. 

I  supposed  that  these  were  leading  me  to  some 
great  scrapping-place  filled  with  the  remains  of 
other  railway-cars  foully  scrapped  for  some  fell 
industrial  purpose.  But  this  was  a  bad  guess. 
The  tracks  led  me  at  last  through  a  lane  and  thence 
into  sight  of  a  little  bay,  on  whose  waters  were 
perceptible  the  sleek  heads  of  sundry  human  beings, 
and  on  its  sands  the  full-lengths  of  sundry  other 
human  beings  in  bath-robes,  reading  novels  or 
merely  basking.  There  was  nowhere  any  sign  of 
industrialism.  More  than  ever  was  I  intrigued  as 
to  the  fate  of  the  old  railway-car  that  I  had  been 
stalking.  It  and  its  lorry  had  halted  on  the  flat 
grassy  land  that  fringed  the  sands.  This  land  was 
dominated  by   a  crescent  of  queer  little  garish 


IN  HOMES  UNBLEST  261 

tenements,  the  like  of  which  I  had  never  seen,  nor 
would  wish  to  see  again.  They  did  not  stand  on 
the  ground,  but  on  stakes  of  wood  and  shafts  of 
brick,  six  feet  or  so  above  the  ground's  level,  and 
were  led  up  to  by  flights  of  wooden  steps  that  tried 
not  to  look  like  ladders.  They  displeased  me  much. 
They  had  little  railed  platforms  round  them,  and 
things  hanging  out  to  dry  on  the  railings ;  and  their 
walls  vied  unneighbourly  with  one  another  in 
lawless  colour-schemes.  One  tenement  was  sal- 
mon-pink with  wide  bands  of  scarlet,  another  sky 
blue  with  a  key  pattern  in  orange,  and  so  on  around 
the  whole  little  horrid  array.  And  I  deduced,  from 
certain  upstanding  stakes  and  shafts  at  the  nearer 
end  of  the  crescent,  that  the  horror  was  not  com- 
plete yet.  A  suspicion  dawned  in  me,  and  be- 
came, while  I  gazed  again  at  the  crescent's  fagades, 
a  glaring  certainty ;  in  the  light  of  which  I  saw  that 
I  had  been  wrong  about  the  old  railway-car.  De- 
funct, it  was  not  to  die.  It  was  to  have  a  new 
function. 

I  had  once  heard  that  disused  railway-cars  were 
convertible  into  sea-side  cottages.  But  the  news 
had  not  fired  my  imagination  nor  protruded  in  my 
memory.  To-day,  as  an  eye-witness  of  the  ac- 
complished fact,  I  was  impressed,  sharply  enough, 
and  I  went  nearer  to  the  crescent,  drawn  by  a 
sort  of  dreadful  fascination.  I  found  that  the 
cottages  all  had  names.     One  cottage  was  Mer- 


262  AND  EVEN  NOW 

maid's  Rock;  another  (which  had  fluttering 
window-curtains  of  Stuart  tartan),  Spray  o'  the 
Sea;  another.  The  Nest;  another.  Briny  nook; 
and  yet  another  had  been  named,  with  less  fitness, 
but  in  an  ampler  and  to  me  more  interesting  spirit. 
Pet  worth.  I  looked  from  them  to  the  not-yet- 
converted  railway-car.  It  had  a  wonderful  dignity. 
In  its  austere  and  monumental  way,  it  was  very 
beautiful.  It  was  a  noble  work  of  man,  and  Nature 
smiled  on  it.  I  wondered  with  what  colours  it 
was  to  be  bejezebelled,  and  what  name — Bolton 
Abbey? — Glad  Eye? — Gay  Wee  Gehenna? — it 
would  have  to  bear,  and  what  manner  of  man  or 
woman  was  going  to  rent  it. 

It  was  on  this  last  point  that  I  mused  especially. 
The  housing  problem  is  hard,  doubtless;  but 
nobody,  my  mind  protested  as  I  surveyed  the  cres- 
cent, nobody  is  driven  to  so  desperate  a  solution 
of  it  as  this!  There  are  tents,  there  are  caves, 
there  are  hollow  trees  .  .  .  and  there  are  people 
who  prefer — this!  Yes,  'this'  is  a  positive  taste, 
not  a  necessity  at  all.  I  swept  the  bay  with  a 
searching  eye;  but  heads  on  the  surface  of  water 
tell  nothing  to  the  sociologist,  and  in  bath-robes 
even  full-lengths  on  the  sand  give  him  no  clue. 
Three  or  four  of  the  full-lengths  had  risen  and 
strolled  up  to  the  lorry,  around  which  the  mechanics 
were  engaged  in  some  dispute  of  a  technical  nature 
I  hoped  the  full-lengths  would  have  something  to 


IN  HOMES  UNBLEST  263 

say  too.  But  they  said  nothing.  This  I  set  down 
to  sheer  perversity.  I  was  more  than  three  miles 
from  the  place  where  I  am  sojourning,  and  the  hour 
for  luncheon  was  nearly  due.  I  left  the  bay 
without  having  been  able  to  determine  the  char- 
acter, the  kind,  of  its  denizens. 

I  take  it  there  is  a  strong  tincture  of  Bohemianism 
in  them.  Mr.  Desmond  MacCarthy,  of  whose  judg- 
ment I  am  always  trustful,  has  said  that  the  hall- 
mark of  Bohemianism  is  a  tendency  to  use  things 
for  purposes  to  which  they  are  not  adapted.  You 
are  a  Bohemian,  says  Mr.  MacCarthy,  if  you  would 
gladly  use  a  razor  for  buttering  your  toast  at 
breakfast,  and  you  aren't  if  you  wouldn't.  I  think 
he  would  agree  that  the  choice  of  a  home  is  a  surer 
index  than  any  fleeting  action,  however  strange, 
and  that  really  the  best-certified  Bohemians  are 
they  who  choose  to  reside  in  railway-cars  on  stilts. 
But— why  particularly  rail  way-cars  .^^  That  is  a 
difficult  question.  A  possible  answer  is  that  the 
Bohemian,  as  tending  always  to  nomady,  feels 
that  the  least  uncongenial  way  of  settling  down  is 
to  stow  himself  into  a  thing  fashioned  for  darting 
hither  and  thither.  Yet  no,  this  answer  won't 
do.  It  is  ruled  out  by  the  law  I  laid  down  in  my 
first  paragraph.  There's  nothing  sadder  to  eye  or 
heart  than  a  very  mobile  thing  made  immovable. 

No  house,  especially  if  you  are  by  way  of  being 
nomadic,  can  be  so  ill  to  live  in  as  one  that  in  its 


264  AND  EVEN  NOW 

heyday  went  gadding  all  over  the  place.  And,  on 
the  other  hand  what  house  more  eligible  than  one 
that  can  gad?  I  myself  am  not  restless,  and  am 
fond  of  comfort:  I  should  not  care  to  live  in  a 
caravan.  But  I  have  always  liked  the  idea  of  a 
caravan.  And  if  you,  alas,  O  reader,  are  a  dweller 
in  a  railway-car,  I  commend  the  idea  to  you.  Take 
it,  with  my  apologies  for  any  words  of  mine  that 
may  have  nettled  you.  Put  it  into  practice. 
Think  of  the  white  road  and  the  shifting  hedgerows 
and  the  counties  that  you  will  soon  lose  count  of. 
And  think  what  a  blessing  it  will  be  for  you  to 
know  that  your  house  is  not  the  one  in  which  the 
Merstham  Tunnel  murder  was  committed. 


WILLIAM    AND    MARY 


WILLIAM    AND    MARY 

ig2o. 

MEMORIES,  like  olives,  are  an  acquired 
taste.  William  and  Mary  (I  give  them 
the  Christian  names  that  were  indeed 
theirs — the  joint  title  by  which  their  friends  always 
referred  to  them)  were  for  some  years  an  interest 
in  my  life,  and  had  a  hold  on  my  affection.  But  a 
time  came  when,  though  I  had  known  and  liked 
them  too  well  ever  to  forget  them,  I  gave  them  but 
a  few  thoughts  now  and  then.  How  being  dead, 
could  they  keep  their  place  in  the  mind  of  a  young 
man  surrounded  with  large  and  constantly  renewed 
consignments  of  the  living?  As  one  grows  older, 
the  charm  of  novelty  wears  off.  One  finds  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  novelty — or,  at  any  rate, 
that  one  has  lost  the  faculty  for  perceiving  it.  One 
sees  every  newcomer  not  as  something  strange  and 
special,  but  as  a  ticketed  specimen  of  this  or  that 
very  familiar  genus.  The  world  has  ceased  to  be 
remarkable;  and  one  tends  to  think  more  and 
more  often  of  the  days  when  it  was  so  very  remark- 
able indeed. 

I  suppose  that  had  I  been  thirty  years  older 

267 


268  AND  EVEN  NOW 

when  first  I  knew  him,  WilHam  would  have 
seemed  to  me  Httle  worthier  of  attention  than  a 
twopenny  postage-stamp  seems  to-day.  Yet,  no: 
William  really  had  some  oddities  that  would  have 
caught  even  an  oldster's  eye.  In  himself  he  was 
commonplace  enough  (as  I,  coseval  though  I  was 
with  him,  soon  saw).  But  in  details  of  surface  he 
was  unusual.  In  them  he  happened  to  be  rather 
ahead  of  his  time.  He  was  a  socialist,  for  example. 
In  1890  there  was  only  one  other  socialist  in  Oxford, 
and  he  not  at  all  an  undergraduate,  but  a  retired 
chimney-sweep,  named  Hines,  who  made  speeches, 
to  which  nobody,  except  perhaps  William,  listened, 
near  the  Martyrs'  Memorial.  And  William  wore  a 
flannel  shirt,  and  rode  a  bicycle — very  strange 
habits  in  those  days,  and  very  horrible.  He  was 
said  to  be  (though  he  was  short-sighted  and  wore 
glasses)  a  first-rate  'back'  at  football;  but,  as 
football  was  a  thing  frowned  on  by  the  rowing  men, 
and  coldly  ignored  by  the  bloods,  his  talent  for  it 
did  not  help  him:  he  was  one  of  the  principal 
pariahs  of  our  College;  and  it  was  rather  in  a  spirit 
of  bravado,  and  to  show  how  sure  of  myself  I  was, 
that  I  began,  in  my  second  year,  to  cultivate  his 
acquaintance. 

We  had  little  in  common.  I  could  not  think 
Political  Economy  '  the  most  exciting  thing  in  the 
world,'  as  he  used  to  call  it.  Nor  could  I  without 
yawning  listen  to  more  than  a  few  lines  of  Mr. 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  269 

William  Morris'  interminable  smooth  Icelandic 
Sagas,  which  my  friend,  pious  young  socialist  that 
he  was,  thought  'glorious.'  He  had  begun  to 
write  an  Icelandic  Saga  himself,  and  had  already 
achieved  some  hundreds  of  verses.  None  of  these 
pleased  him,  though  to  me  they  seemed  very  like 
his  master's.  I  can  see  him  now,  standing  on  his 
hearth-rug,  holding  his  MS.  close  to  his  short- 
sighted eyes,  declaiming  the  verses  and  trying,  with 
many  angular  gestures  of  his  left  hand,  to  animate 
them — a  tall,  broad,  raw-boned  fellow,  with  long 
brown  hair  flung  back  from  his  forehead,  and  a  very 
shabby  suit  of  clothes.  Because  of  his  clothes  and 
his  socialism,  and  his  habit  of  offering  beer  to  a 
guest,  I  had  at  first  supposed  him  quite  poor;  and 
I  was  surprised  when  he  told  me  that  he  had  from 
his  guardian  (his  parents  being  dead)  an  allowance 
of  £350,  and  that  when  he  came  of  age  he  would 
have  an  income  of  £400.  *A11  out  of  dividends,' 
he  would  groan.  I  would  hint  that  Mr.  Hines  and 
similar  zealots  might  disembarrass  him  of  this  load, 
if  he  asked  them  nicely.  'No,'  he  would  say  quite 
seriously,  'I  can't  do  that,'  and  would  read  out 
passages  from  'Fabian  Essays'  to  show  that  in 
the  present  anarchical  conditions  only  mischief 
could  result  from  sporadic  dispersal  of  rent.  '  Ten, 
twelve  years  hence — '  he  would  muse  more  hope- 
fully. 'But  by  that  time,'  I  would  say,  'you'll 
probably   be   married,    and   your   wife   mightn't 


270  AND  EVEN  NOW 

quite — ',  whereat  he  would  hotly  repeat  what  he 
had  said  many  times :  that  he  would  never  marry. 
Marriage  was  an  anti-social  anachronism.  I  think 
its  survival  was  in  some  part  due  to  the  machina- 
tions of  Capital.  Anyway,  it  was  doomed.  Tem- 
porary civil  contracts  between  men  and  women 
would  be  the  rule  'ten,  twelve  years  hence'; 
pending  which  time  the  lot  of  any  man  who  had 
civic  sense  must  be  celibacy,  tempered  perhaps 
with  free  love. 

Long  before  that  time  was  up,  nevertheless, 
William  married.  One  afternoon  in  the  spring  of 
'95  I  happened  to  meet  him  at  a  corner  of  Cockspur 
Street.  I  wondered  at  the  immense  cordiality  cf 
his  greeting;  for  our  friendship,  such  as  it  was,  had 
waned  in  our  two  final  years  at  Oxford.  'You 
look  very  flourishing,  and,'  I  said,  'you're  wearing 
a  new  suit!'  'I'm  married,'  he  replied,  obvi- 
ously without  a  twinge  of  conscience.  He  told 
me  he  had  been  married  just  a  month.  He  declared 
that  to  be  married  was  the  most  splendid  thing  in 
all  the  world;  but  he  weakened  the  force  of  this 
generalisation  by  adding  that  there  never  was  any 
one  like  his  wife.  'You  must  see  her,'  he  said; 
and  his  impatience  to  show  her  proudly  off  to  some 
one  was  so  evident,  and  so  touching,  that  I  could 
but  accept  his  invitation  to  go  and  stay  with  them 
for  two  or  three  days — 'why  not  next  week.?' 
They  had  taken  and  furnished  'a  sort  of  cottage' 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  271 

in shire,  and  this  was  their  home.     He  had 

*run  up  for  the  day,  on  business — journalism* 
and  was  now  on  his  way  to  Charing  Cross.  *I 
know  you'll  like  my  wife,'  he  said  at  parting. 

*  She's — well,  she's  glorious.' 

As  this  was  the  epithet  he  had  erst  applied  to 

*  Beowulf  and  to  'Sigurd  the  Volsung'  it  raised 
no  high  hopes.  And  indeed,  as  I  was  soon  to  find, 
he  had  again  misused  it.  There  was  nothing 
glorious  about  his  bride.  Some  people  might  even 
have  not  thought  her  pretty.  I  myself  did  not,  in 
the  flash  of  first  sight.  Neat,  insignificant,  pleas- 
ing, was  what  she  appeared  to  me,  rather  than 
pretty,  and  far  rather  than  glorious.  In  an  age  of 
fringes,  her  brow  was  severely  bare.     She  looked 

*  practical.'  But  an  instant  later,  when  she  smiled, 
I  saw  that  she  was  pretty,  too.  And  presently  I 
thought  her  delightful.     William  had  met  me  in  a 

*  governess  cart,'  and  we  went  to  see  him  unhar- 
ness the  pony.  He  did  this  in  a  fumbling,  experi- 
mental way,  confusing  the  reins  with  the  traces, 
and  profiting  so  little  by  his  wife's  directions  that 
she  began  to  laugh.  And  her  laugh  was  a  lovely 
thing;  quite  a  small  sound,  but  exquisitely  clear 
and  gay,  coming  in  a  sequence  of  notes  that  neither 
rose  nor  fell,  that  Vv^ere  quite  even;  a  trill  of  notes, 
and  then  another,  and  another,  as  though  she 
were  pulling  repeatedly  a  little  silver  bell  .  .  . 
As    I    describe    it,  perhaps    the    sound  may  be 


272  AND  EVEN  NOW 

imagined  irritating.  I  can  only  say  it  was  en- 
chanting. 

I  wished  she  would  go  on  laughing;  but  she 
ceased,  she  darted  forward  and  (William  standing 
obediently  aside,  and  I  helping  unlielpfully)  unhar- 
nessed the  pony  herself,  and  led  it  into  its  small 
stable.  Decidedly,  she  was  'practical,'  but — I 
was  prepared  now  to  be  lenient  to  any  quality  she 
might  have. 

Had  she  been  feckless,  no  doubt  I  should  have 
forgiven  her  that,  too;  but  I  might  have  enjoyed 
my  visit  less  than  I  did,  and  might  have  been  less 
pleased  to  go  often  again.  I  had  expected  to 
*  rough  it'  under  William's  roof.  But  everything 
thereunder,  within  the  limits  of  a  strict  Arcadian 
simplicity,  was  well-ordered.  I  was  touched,  when 
I  went  to  my  bedroom,  by  the  precision  with  which 
the  very  small  maid  had  unpacked  and  disposed 
my  things.  And  I  wondered  where  my  hostess  had 
got  the  lore  she  had  so  evidently  imparted.  Cer- 
tainly not  from  William.  Perhaps  (it  only  now 
strikes  me)  from  a  handbook.  For  Mary  was  great 
at  handbooks.  She  had  handbooks  about  garden- 
ing, and  others  about  poultry,  and  one  about  'the 
stable,'  and  others  on  cognate  themes.  From  these 
she  had  filled  up  the  gaps  left  in  her  education  by 
her  father,  who  was  a  widower  and  either  a  doctor 
or  a  solicitor — I  forget  which — in  one  of  the  smallest 
towns  of  an  adjoining  county.     And  I  daresay  she 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  273 

may  have  had,  somewhere  hidden  away,  a  manual 
for  young  hostesses.  If  so,  it  must  have  been  a 
good  one.  But  to  say  this  is  to  behttle  Mary's 
powers  of  intuition.  It  was  they,  sharpened  by  her 
adoration  of  William,  and  by  her  intensity  for 
everything  around  him,  that  made  her  so  efficient 
a  housewife. 

If  she  possessed  a  manual  for  young  house- 
hunters,  it  was  assuredly  not  by  the  light  of  this 
that  she  had  chosen  the  home  they  were  installed 
in.  The  'sort  of  cottage'  had  been  vacant  for 
many  years — an  unpromising  and  ineligible  object, 
a  mile  away  from  a  village,  and  three  miles  away 
from  a  railway  station.  The  main  part  of  it  was 
an  actual  cottage,  of  seventeenth-century  work- 
manship ;  but  a  little  stuccoed  wing  had  been  added 
to  each  side  of  it,  in  1850  or  thereabouts,  by  an 
eccentric  old  gentleman  who  at  that  time  chose  to 
make  it  his  home.  He  had  added  also  the  small 
stable,  a  dairy,  and  other  appanages.  For  these, 
and  for  garden,  there  was  plenty  of  room,  as  he  had 
purchased  and  enclosed  half  an  acre  of  the  sur- 
rounding land.  Those  two  stuccoed,  very  Victorian 
wings  of  his,  each  with  a  sash-window  above  and  a 
French  window  below,  consorted  queerly  with  the 
old  red  brick  and  the  latticed  panes.  And  the 
long  wooden  veranda  that  he  had  invoked  did  not 
unify  the  trinity.  But  one  didn't  want  it  to.  The 
wrongness  had  a  character  all  its  own.  The  wrong- 


274  AND  EVEN  NOW 

ness  was  right — at  any  rate  after  Mary  had  hit  on 
it  for  William.  As  a  spinster,  she  would,  I  think, 
have  been  happiest  in  a  trim  modern  villa.  But  it 
was  a  belief  of  hers  that  she  had  married  a  man  of 
strange  genius.  She  had  married  him  for  himself, 
not  for  his  genius;  but  this  added  grace  in  him 
was  a  thing  to  be  reckoned  with,  ever  so  much;  a 
thing  she  must  coddle  to  the  utmost  in  a  proper 
setting.  She  was  a  year  older  than  he  (though, 
being  so  small  and  slight,  she  looked  several  years 
younger) ,  and  in  her  devotion  the  maternal  instinct 
played  a  great  part.  William,  as  I  have  already 
conveyed  to  you,  was  not  greatly  gifted.  Mary's 
instinct,  in  this  one  matter,  was  at  fault.  But 
endearingly,  rightly  at  fault.  And,  as  William  was 
outwardly  odd,  wasn't  it  well  that  his  home  should 
be  so,  too?  On  the  inside,  comfort  was  what  Mary 
always  aimed  at  for  him,  and  achieved. 

The  ground  floor  had  all  been  made  one  room, 
into  which  you  stepped  straight  from  the  open  air. 
Quite  a  long  big  room  (or  so  it  seemed,  from  the 
lowness  of  the  ceiling),  and  well-freshened  in  its 
antiquity,  with  rush-mats  here  and  there  on  the  ir- 
regular red  tiles,  and  very  white  whitewash  on  the 
plaster  between  the  rafters.  This  was  the  dining- 
room,  drawing-room,  and  general  focus  throughout 
the  day,  and  was  called  simply  the  Room.  William 
had  a  'den'  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  left  wing; 
and  there,  in  the  mornings,  he  used  to  write  a  great 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  275 

deal.  Mary  had  no  special  place  of  her  own :  her 
place  was  wherever  her  duties  needed  her.  William 

wrote  reviews  of  books  for  the  Daily .    He  did 

also  creative  work.  The  vein  of  poetry  in  him  had 
worked  itself  out — or  rather,  it  expressed  itself  for 
him  in  Mary.  For  technical  purposes,  the  influence 
of  Ibsen  had  superseded  that  of  Morris.  At  the 
time  of  my  first  visit,  he  was  writing  an  extra- 
ordinarily gloomy  play  about  an  extraordinarily 
unhappy  marriage.  In  subsequent  seasons  (Ibsen's 
disc  having  been  somehow  eclipsed  for  him  by 
George  Gissing's)  he  was  usually  writing  novels  in 
which  every  one — or  do  I  exaggerate?— had  made 
a  disastrous  match.  I  think  Mary's  belief  in  his 
genius  had  made  him  less  diffident  than  he  was  at 
Oxford.  He  was  always  emerging  from  his  den, 
with  fresh  pages  of  MS.,  into  the  Room.  'You 
don't  mind.'^'  he  would  say,  waving  his  pages,  and 
then  would  shout  'Mary!'  She  was  always 
promptly  forthcoming — sometimes  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  kitchen,  in  a  white  apron,  sometimes 
from  the  garden,  in  a  blue  one.  She  never  looked 
at  him  while  he  read.  To  do  so  would  have  been 
lacking  in  respect  for  his  work.  It  vv^as  on  this  that 
she  must  concentrate  her  whole  mind,  privileged 
auditor  that  she  was.  She  sat  looldng  straight 
before  her,  with  her  lips  slightly  compressed,  and 
her  hands  folded  on  her  lap.  I  used  to  wonder  that 
there  had  been  that  first  moment  when  I  did  not 


276  AND  EVEN  NOW 

think  her  pretty.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  very  light 
hazel,  seeming  all  the  lighter  because  her  hair  was 
of  so  dark  a  brown;  and  they  were  beautifully  set 
in  a  face  of  that  'pinched  oval'  kind  which  is 
rather  rare  in  England.  Mary  as  listener  would 
have  atoned  to  me  for  any  defects  there  may  have 
been  in  dear  old  William's  work.  Nevertheless,  I 
sometimes  wished  this  work  had  some  comic  relief 
in  it.  Publishers,  I  believe,  shared  this  wish ;  hence 
the  eternal  absence  of  William's  name  from  among 
their  announcements.  For  Mary's  sake,  and  his,  I 
should  have  liked  him  to  be  'successful.'  But  at 
any  rate  he  didn't  need  money.  He  didn't  need,  in 
addition  to  what  he  had,  what  he  made  by  his 
journalism.  And  as  for  success — well,  didn't  Mary 
think  him  a  genius.'^  And  wasn't  he  Mary's  hus- 
band? The  main  reason  why  I  wished  for  light 
passages  in  what  he  read  to  us  was  that  they  would 
have  been  cues  for  Mary's  laugh.  This  was  a  thing 
always  new  to  me.  I  never  tired  of  that  little  bell- 
like euphony;  those  funny  little  lucid  and  level 
trills. 

There  was  no  stint  of  that  charm  when  William 
was  not  reading  to  us.  Mary  was  in  no  awe  of  him, 
apart  from  his  work,  and  in  no  awe  at  all  of  me: 
she  used  to  laugh  at  us  both,  for  one  thing  and 
another — just  the  same  laugh  as  I  had  first  heard 
when  William  tried  to  unharness  the  pony.  I 
cultivated  in  myself  whatever  amused  her  in  me; 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  277 

I  drew  out  whatever  amused  her  in  William;  I 
never  let  slip  any  of  the  things  that  amused  her  in 
herself.  'Chaff'  is  a  great  bond;  and  I  should 
have  enjoyed  our  bouts  of  it  even  without  Mary's 
own  special  ohhligato.  She  used  to  call  me  (for  I 
was  very  urban  in  those  days)  the  Gentleman  from 
London.  I  used  to  call  her  the  Brave  Little 
Woman.  Whatever  either  of  us  said  or  did  could 
be  twisted  easily  into  relation  to  those  two  titles; 
and  our  bouts,  to  which  William  listened  with  a 
puzzled,  benevolent  smile,  used  to  cease  only  be- 
cause Mary  regarded  me  as  a  possible  purveyor  of 
what  William,  she  was  sure,  wanted  and  needed 
down  there  in  the  country,  alone  with  her:  intel- 
lectual conversation,  after  his  work.  She  often,  I 
think,  invented  duties  in  garden  or  kitchen  so  that 
he  should  have  this  stimulus,  or  luxury,  without 
hindrance.  But  when  William  was  alone  with  me 
it  was  about  her  that  he  liked  to  talk,  and  that  I 
myself  liked  to  talk  too.  He  was  very  sound  on 
the  subject  of  Mary;  and  so  was  I.  And  if,  when 
I  was  alone  with  Mary,  I  seemed  to  be  sounder  than 
I  was  on  the  subject  of  William's  wonderfulness, 
who  shall  blame  me? 

Had  Mary  been  a  mother,  William's  wonderful- 
ness would  have  been  less  greatly  important.  But 
he  was  her  child  as  well  as  her  lover.  And  I  think, 
though  I  do  not  know,  she  believed  herself  content 
that  this  should  always  be,  if  so  it  were  destined. 


278  AND  EVEN  NOW 

It  was  not  destined  so.  On  the  first  night  of  a 
visit  I  paid  them  in  April,  1899,  William,  when  we 
were  alone,  told  me  news.  I  had  been  vaguely 
conscious,  throughout  the  evening,  of  some  change; 
conscious  that  Mary  had  grown  gayer,  and  less  gay 
— somehow  different,  somehow  remote.  William 
said  that  her  child  would  be  born  in  September, 
if  all  went  well.  'She's  immensely  happy,'  he 
told  me.  I  realised  that  she  was  indeed  happier 
than  ever  .  .  .  'And  of  course  it  would  be  a 
wonderful  thing,  for  both  of  us,'  he  said  presently, 
'to  have  a  son- — or  a  daughter.'  I  asked  him 
which  he  would  rather  it  were,  a  son  or  a  daughter. 
'Oh,  either,'  he  answered  wearily.  It  was  evident 
that  he  had  misgivings  and  fears.  I  tried  to  reason 
him  out  of  them.  He  did  not,  I  am  thanlvful  to 
say,  ever  let  Mary  suspect  them.  She  had  no 
misgivings.  But  it  was  destined  that  her  child 
should  live  only  for  an  hour,  and  that  she  should 
die  in  bearing  it. 

I  had  stayed  again  at  the  cottage  in  July,  for 
some  days.  At  the  end  of  that  month  I  had  gone 
to  France,  as  was  my  custom,  and  a  week  later 
had  written  to  Mary.  It  was  William  that  an- 
swered this  letter,  telling  me  of  Mary's  death  and 
burial.  I  returned  to  England  next  day.  William 
and  I  wrote  to  each  other  several  times.  He  had 
not  left  his  home.    He  stayed  there,  'trying,'  as  he 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  279 

said  in  a  grotesque  and  heart-rending  phrase,  'to 
finish  a  novel.'  I  saw  him  in  the  following 
January.  He  wrote  to  me  from  the  Charing  Cross 
Hotel,  asking  me  to  lunch  with  him  there.  After 
our  first  greetings,  there  was  a  silence.  He  wanted 
to  talk  of — what  he  could  not  talk  of.  We  stared 
helplessly  at  each  other,  and  then,  in  the  English 
way,  talked  of  things  at  large.  England  was 
engaged  in  the  Boer  War.  William  was  the  sort 
of  man  whom  one  would  have  expected  to  be 
violently  Pro-Boer.  I  was  surprised  at  his  fervour 
for  the  stronger  side.  He  told  me  he  had  tried 
to  enlist,  but  had  been  rejected  on  account  of  his 
eyesight.  But  there  was,  he  said,  a  good  chance 
of  his  being  sent  out,  almost  immediately,  as  one 

of  the  Daily 's  special  correspondents.     'And 

then,'  he  exclaimed,  'I  shall  see  something  of 
it.'  I  had  a  presentiment  that  he  would  not 
return,  and  a  belief  that  he  did  not  want  to  return. 
He  did  not  return.  Special  correspondents  were 
not  so  carefully  shepherded  in  that  war  as  they 
have  since  been.  They  were  more  at  liberty  to 
take  risks,  on  behalf  of  the  journals  to  which  they 
were  accredited.  William  was  killed  a  few  weeks 
after  he  had  landed  at  Cape  Town. 

And  there  came,  as  I  have  said,  a  time  when  I 
did  not  think  of  William  and  Mary  often;  and 
then  a  time  when  I  did  more  often  think  of  them. 


280  AND  EVEN  NOW 

And  especially  much  did  my  mind  hark  back  to 
them  in  the  late  autumn  of  last  year;  for  on  the 
way  to  the  place  I  was  staying  at  I  had  passed  the 
little  railway  station  whose  name  had  always  linked 
itself  for  me  with  the  names  of  those  two  friends. 
There  were  but  four  intervening  stations.  It  was 
not  a  difficult  pilgrimage  that  I  made  some  days 
later — back  towards  the  past,  for  that  past's  sake 
and  honour.  I  had  thought  I  should  not  remember 
the  way,  the  three  miles  of  w^ay,  from  the  station 
to  the  cottage;  but  I  found  myself  remembering 
it  perfectly,  without  a  glance  at  the  finger-posts. 
Rain  had  been  falling  heavily,  driving  the  late 
leaves  off  the  trees;  and  everything  looked  rather 
sodden  and  misty,  though  the  sun  was  now  shining. 
I  had  known  this  landscape  only  in  spring,  summer, 
early  autumn.  Mary  had  held  to  a  theory  that 
at  other  seasons  I  could  not  be  acclimatised.  But 
there  were  groups  of  trees  that  I  knew,  even  with- 
out their  leaves;  and  farm-houses  and  small  stone 
bridges  that  had  not  at  all  changed.  Only  what 
mattered  was  changed.  Only  what  mattered  was 
gone.  Would  what  I  had  come  to  see  be  there 
still?  In  comparison  with  what  it  had  held,  it 
was  not  much.  But  I  wished  to  see  it,  melancholy 
spectacle  though  it  must  be  for  me  if  it  were 
extant,  and  worse  than  melancholy  if  it  held  some- 
thing new.  I  began  to  be  sure  it  had  been  demo- 
lished, built  over.     At  the  corner  of  the  lane  that 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  281 

had  led  to  it,  I  was  almost  minded  to  explore  no 
further,  to  turn  back.  But  I  went  on,  and  sud- 
denly I  was  at  the  four-barred  iron  gate,  that  I 
remembered,  between  the  laurels.  It  was  rusty, 
and  was  fastened  with  a  rusty  padlock,  and  beyond 
it  there  was  grass  where  a  winding  'drive'  had 
been.  From  the  lane  the  cottage  never  had  been 
visible,  even  when  these  laurels  were  lower  and 
sparser  than  they  were  now.  Was  the  cottage 
still  standing?  Presently,  I  climbed  over  the  gate, 
and  walked  through  the  long  grass,  and — yes,  there 
was  Mary's  cottage;  still  there;  William's  and 
Mary's  cottage.  Trite  enough,  I  have  no  doubt 
were  the  thoughts  that  possessed  me  as  I  stood 
gazing.  There  is  nothing  new  to  be  thought  about 
the  evanescence  of  human  things;  but  there  is 
always  much  to  be  felt  about  it  by  one  who  en- 
counters in  his  maturity  some  such  intimate 
instance  and  reminder  as  confronted  me,  in  that 
cold  sunshine,  across  that  small  wilderness  of  long 
rank  wet  grass  and  weeds. 

Incredibly  woebegone  and  lonesome  the  house 
would  have  looked  even  to  one  for  whom  it  con- 
tained no  memories;  all  the  more  because  in  its 
utter  dereliction  it  looked  so  durable.  Some  of  the 
stucco  had  fallen  off  ths  walls  of  the  two  wings; 
thick  flakes  of  it  lay  on  the  discoloured  roof  of  the 
veranda,  and  thick  flakes  of  it  could  be  seen  lying 
in  the  grass  below.     Otherwise,   there  were  few 


282  AND  EVEN  NOW 

signs  of  actual  decay.  The  sash-window  and  the 
French  window  of  each  wing  were  shuttered,  and, 
from  where  I  was  standing,  the  cream-coloured 
paint  of  those  shutters  behind  the  glass  looked 
almost  fresh.  The  latticed  windows  between  had 
all  been  boarded  up  from  within.  The  house  was 
not  to  be  let  perish  soon. 

I  did  not  want  to  go  nearer  to  it;  yet  I  did  go 
nearer,  step  by  step,  across  the  wilderness,  right 
up  to  the  edge  of  the  veranda  itself,  and  within 
a  yard  of  the  front-door. 

I  stood  looking  at  that  door.  I  had  never 
noticed  it  in  the  old  days,  for  then  it  had  always 
stood  open.  But  it  asserted  itself  now,  master  of 
the  threshold. 

It  was  a  narrow  door — narrow  even  for  its  height, 
which  did  not  exceed  mine  by  more  than  two 
inches  or  so;  a  door  that  even  when  it  was  freshly 
painted  must  have  looked  mean.  How  much 
meaner  now,  with  its  paint  all  faded  and  mottled, 
cracked  and  blistered!  It  had  no  knocker,  not 
even  a  slit  for  letters.  All  that  it  had  was  a 
large-ish  key -hole.  On  this  my  eyes  rested;  and 
presently  I  moved  to  it,  stooped  down  to  it,  peered 
through  it.  I  had  a  glimpse  of — darkness  im- 
penetrable. 

Strange  it  seemed  to  me,  as  I  stood  back,  that 
there  the  Room  was,  the  remembered  Room  itself, 
separated  from  me  by  nothing  but  this  unremem- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  283 

bered  door  .  .  .  and  a  quarter  of  a  century,  yes. 
I  saw  it  all,  in  my  mind's  eye,  just  as  it  had  been: 
the  way  the  sunlight  came  into  it  through  this 
same  doorway  and  through  the  lattices  of  these 
same  four  windows;  the  way  the  little  bit  of  a 
staircase  came  down  into  it,  so  crookedly  yet  so 
confidently;  and  how  uneven  the  tiled  floor  was, 
and  how  low  the  rafters  were,  and  how  littered 
the  whole  place  was  with  books  brought  in  from 
his  den  by  William,  and  how  bright  with  flowers 
brought  in  by  Mary  from  her  garden.  The  rafters, 
the  stairs,  the  tiles,  were  still  existing,  changeless 
in  despite  of  cobwebs  and  dust  and  darkness,  all 
quite  changeless  on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  so 
near  to  me.  I  wondered  how  I  should  feel  if  by 
some  enchantment  the  door  slowly  turned  on  its 
hinges,  letting  in  light.  I  should  not  enter,  I  felt, 
not  even  look,  so  much  must  I  hate  to  see  those 
inner  things  lasting  when  all  that  had  given  to 
them  a  meaning  was  gone  from  them,  taken  away 
from  them,  finally.  And  yet,  why  blame  them  for 
their  survival.'*  And  how  know  that  nothing  of 
the  past  ever  came  to  them,  revisiting,  hovering.? 
Something — sometimes — perhaps.'*  One  knew  so 
little.  How  not  be  tender  to  what,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  perhaps  the  dead  loved? 

So  strong  in  me  now  was  the  wish  to  see  again 
all  those  things,  to  touch  them  and,  as  it  were, 
commune  with  them,  and  so  queerly  may  the  mind 


284  AND  EVEN  NOW 

be  wrought  upon  In  a  solitude  among  memories, 
that  there  were  moments  when  I  almost  expected 
that  the  door  would  obey  my  will.  I  was  recalled 
to  a  clearer  sense  of  reality  by  something  which 
I  had  not  before  noticed.  In  the  door-post  to  the 
right  was  a  small  knob  of  rusty  Iron — mocking 
reminder  that  to  gain  admission  to  a  house  one 
does  not  'will'  the  door:  one  rings  the  bell — 
unless  it  is  rusty  and  has  quite  obviously  no  one 
to  answer  It;  In  which  case  one  goes  away.  Yet 
I  did  not  go  away.  The  movement  that  I  made, 
in  despite  of  myself,  was  towards  the  knob  Itself. 
But,  I  hesitated,  suppose  I  did  what  I  half  meant 
to  do,  and  there  were  no  sound.  That  would  be 
ghastly.  And  surely  there  would  be  no  sound. 
And  If  sound  there  were,  wouldn't  that  be  worse 
still?  My  hand  drew  back,  wavered,  suddenly 
closed  on  the  knob.  I  heard  the  scrape  of  the 
wire — and  then,  from  somewhere  within  the  heart 
of  the  shut  house,  a  tinkle. 

It  had  been  the  weakest,  the  puniest  of  noises. 
It  had  been  no  more  than  Is  a  fledgling's  first 
attempt  at  a  twitter.  But  I  was  not  judging  It 
by  Its  volume.  Deafening  peals  from  steeples  had 
meant  less  to  me  than  that  one  single  note  breaking 
the  silence — in  there.  In  there.  In  the  dark,  the 
bell  that  had  answered  me  was  still  quivering,  I 
supposed,  on  Its  wire.  But  there  was  no  one  to 
answer  it,  no  footstep  to  come  hither  from  those 


WILLIAM  AND  IMARY  285 

recesses,  making  prints  in  the  dust.  Well,  I  could 
answer  it;  and  again  my  hand  closed  on  the  knob, 
unhesitatingly  this  time,  pulling  further.  That 
was  my  answer;  and  the  rejoinder  to  it  was  more 
than  I  had  thought  to  hear — a  whole  quick  sequence 
of  notes,  faint  but  clear,  playful,  yet  poignantly 
sad,  like  a  trill  of  laughter  echoing  out  of  the  past, 
or  even  merely  out  of  this  neighbouring  darkiiess. 
It  was  so  like  something  I  had  known,  so  recognis- 
able and,  oh,  recognising,  that  I  was  lost  in  wonder. 
And  long  must  I  have  remained  standing  at 
that  door,  for  I  heard  the  sound  often,  often.  I 
must  have  rung  again  and  again,  tenaciously, 
vehemently,  in  my  folly. 


ON  SPEAKING  FRENCH 


ON  SPEAKING  FRENCH 

igig. 

WHEREVER  two  Englishmen  are  speaking 
French  to  a  Frenchman  you  may  safely 
diagnose  in  the  breast  of  one  of  the  two 
humiliation,  envy,  ill-will,  impotent  rage,  and  a 
dull  yearning  for  vengeance;  and  you  can  take  it 
that  the  degree  of  these  emotions  is  in  exact  ratio 
to  the  superiority  of  the  other  man's  performance. 
In  the  breast  of  this  other  are  contempt,  malicious 
amusement,  conceit,  vanity,  pity,  and  joy  in  osten- 
tation; these,  also,  exactly  commensurable  with 
his  advantage.  Strange  and  sad  that  this  should  be 
so;  but  so  it  is.  French  brings  out  the  worst  in  all 
of  us — all,  I  mean,  but  the  few,  the  lamentably 
far  too  few,  who  cannot  aspire  to  stammer  some 
colloquial  phrases  of  it. 

Even  in  Victorian  days,  when  England  was  more 
than  geographically,  was  psychologically  an  island, 
French  made  mischief  among  us,  and  was  one  of 
the  Devil's  favourite  ways  of  setting  brother  against 
brother.  But  in  those  days  the  bitterness  of  the 
weaker  brother  was  a  little  sweetened  with  dis- 
approval of  the  stronger.   To  speak  French  fluently 

289 


290  AND  EVEN  NOW 

and  Idiomatically  and  with  a  good  accent — or  with 
an  idiom  and  accent  which  to  other  rough  islanders 
seemed  good — was  a  rather  suspect  accomplish- 
ment, being  somehow  deemed  incompatible  with 
civic  worth.  Thus  the  weaker  ones  had  not  to 
drain  the  last  lees  of  their  shame,  and  the  stronger 
could  not  wholly  rejoice  in  their  strength.  But  the 
old  saving  prejudice  has  now  died  out  (greatly  to 
the  delight  of  the  Devil),  and  there  seems  no  chance 
that  it  will  be  revived. 

Of  other  languages  no  harm  comes.  None  of 
us — none,  at  any  rate,  outside  the  diplomatic 
service — has  a  feeling  that  he  ought  to  be  master 
of  them.  In  every  recent  generation  a  few  men 
have  learned  Italian  because  of  the  Divina  Corn- 
media:  and  a  very  few  others  have  tried  Spanish, 
with  a  view  to  Cervantes;  and  German  has  pes- 
tered not  always  vainly  the  consciences  of  young 
men  gravitating  to  philosophy  or  to  science.  But 
not  for  social,  not  for  any  oral  purposes  were  these 
languages  essayed.  If  an  Italian  or  a  Spanish  or 
a  German  came  among  us  he  was  expected  to 
converse  in  English  or  spend  his  time  in  visiting 
the  sights  silently  and  alone.  No  language  except 
French  has  ever — but  stay!  There  was,  at  the 
outbreak  of  the  War,  a  great  impulse  towards 
Russian.  All  sorts  of  people  wanted  their  children 
to  be  taught  Russian  without  a  moment's  delay. 
I  do  not  remember  that  they  wanted  to  learn  it 


ON  SPEAKING  FRENCH  291 

themselves;  but  they  felt  an  extreme  need  that 
their  offspring  should  hereafter  be  able  to  converse 
with  moujiks  about  ikons  and  the  Little  Father 
and  anything  else — if  there  were  anything  else — 
that  moujiks  cared  about.  This  need,  however,  is 
not  felt  now.  When,  so  soon  after  his  d^but  in 
high  politics,  M.  Kerensky  was  superseded  by 
M.  Lenin,  Russian  was  forthwith  deemed  a  not 
quite  nice  language,  even  for  children.  Russia's 
alphabet  was  withdrawn  from  the  nurseries  as 
abruptly  as  it  had  been  brought  in,  and  le  chapeau 
de  la  cousine  du  jardinier  was  re-indued  with  its 
old  importance. 

I  doubt  whether  Russian  would  for  more  than 
a  little  while  have  seemed  to  be  a  likely  rival  of 
French,  even  if  M.  Kerensky  had  been  the  strong 
man  we  hoped  he  was.  The  language  that  suc- 
ceeded to  Latin  as  the  official  mode  of  intercourse 
between  nations,  and  as  the  usual  means  of  talk 
between  the  well-educated  people  of  any  one  land 
and  those  of  any  other,  had  an  initial  advantage 
not  quite  counterbalanced  by  the  fact  that  there 
are  in  Russia  myriads  of  people  who  speak  Russian, 
and  a  few  who  can  also  read  and  write  it.  Russian 
may,  for  aught  I  know,  be  a  very  beautiful  lan- 
guage; it  may  be  as  lucid  and  firm  in  its  construc- 
tions as  French  is,  and  as  musical  in  sound;  I 
know  nothing  at  all  about  it.  Nor  do  I  claim  for 
French  that  it  was  by  its  own  virtues  predestined 


292  AND  EVEN  NOW 

to  the  primacy  that  it  holds  in  Europe.  Had 
Italy,  not  France,  been  an  united  and  powerful 
nation  when  Latin  became  desuete,  that  primacy 
would  of  course  have  been  taken  by  Italian.  And 
I  cannot  help  wishing  that  this  had  happened. 
Italian,  though  less  elegant,  is,  for  the  purpose  of 
writing,  a  richer  language  than  French,  and  an 
even  subtler;  and  the  sound  of  it  spoken  is  as 
superior  to  the  sound  of  French  as  a  violin's  is  to 
a  flute's.  Still,  French  does,  by  reason  of  its 
exquisite  concision  and  clarity,  fill  its  post  of 
honour  very  worthily,  and  will  not  in  any  near 
future,  I  think,  be  thrust  down.  Many  people, 
having  regard  to  the  very  numerous  population  of 
the  British  Empire  and  the  United  States,  cherish 
a  belief  that  English  will  presently  be  cock  of  the 
world's  walk.  But  we  have  to  consider  that 
English  is  an  immensely  odd  and  irregular  language, 
that  it  is  accounted  very  difficult  by  even  the  best 
foreign  linguists,  and  that  even  among  native 
writers  there  are  few  who  can  so  wield  it  as  to  make 
their  meaning  clear  without  prolixity — and  among 
these  few  none  who  has  not  been  well-grounded  in 
Latin.  By  its  very  looseness,  by  its  way  of  evok- 
ing rather  than  defining,  suggesting  rather  than  say- 
ing, English  is  a  magnificent  vehicle  for  emotional 
poetry.  But  foreigners  don't  much  want  to  say 
beautiful  haunting  things  to  us;  they  want  to  be 
told  what  limits  there  are,  if  any,  to  the  power  of 


ON  SPEAKING  FRENCH  293 

the  Lord  Mayor;  and  our  rambling  endeavours  to 
explain  do  but  bemuse  and  annoy  them.  They 
find  that  the  rewards  of  learning  English  are  as 
slight  as  its  difficulties  are  great,  and  they  warn 
their  fellows  to  this  effect.  Nor  does  the  oral  sound 
of  English  allay  the  prejudice  thus  created.  Sooth- 
ing and  dear  and  charming  that  sound  is  to  English 
ears.  But  no  nation  can  judge  the  sound  of  its 
own  language.  This  can  be  judged  only  from 
without,  only  by  ears  to  which  it  is  unfamiliar. 
And  alas,  much  as  we  like  listening  to  French  or 
Italian,  for  example,  Italians  and  Frenchmen  (if 
we  insist  on  having  their  opinion)  will  confess  that 
English  has  for  them  a  rather  harsh  sound.  Alto- 
gether, it  seems  to  me  unlikely  that  the  world  will 
let  English  supplant  French  for  international 
purposes,  and  likely  that  French  will  be  ousted 
only  when  the  world  shall  have  been  so  inter- 
nationalised that  the  children  of  every  land  will 
have  to  learn,  besides  their  own  traditional  lan- 
guage, some  kind  of  horrible  universal  lingo  be- 
gotten on  Volapuk  by  a  congress  of  the  world's 
worst  pedants. 

Almost  I  could  wish  I  had  been  postponed  to 
that  era,  so  much  have  I  suffered  through  speaking 
French  to  Frenchmen  in  the  presence  of  English- 
men. Left  alone  with  a  Frenchman,  I  can  stumble 
along,  slowly  indeed,  but  still  along,  and  without 
acute  sense  of  ignominy.      Especially  is  this  so  if 


294  AND  EVEN  NOW 

I  am  in  Frarxce.  There  is  in  the  atmosphere  some- 
thing that  braces  one  for  the  language.  I  don't 
say  I  am  not  sorry,  even  so,  for  my  Frenchman. 
But  I  am  sorrier  for  him  in  England.  And  if  any 
Englishmen  be  included  in  the  scene  my  sympathy 
with  him  is  like  to  be  lost  in  my  agony  for  myself. 
Would  that  I  had  made  some  such  confession 
years  ago!  O  folly  of  pride!  I  lilced  the  delusion 
that  I  spoke  French  well,  a  delusion  common 
enough  among  those  who  had  never  heard  me. 
Somehow  I  seemed  likely  to  possess  that  accom- 
plishment. I  cannot  charge  myself  with  having 
ever  claimed  to  possess  it;  but  I  am  afraid  that 
when  any  one  said  to  me  'I  suppose  you  speak 
French  perfectly.^ '  I  allowed  the  tone  of  my  denial 
to  carry  with  it  a  hint  of  mock-modesty.  'Oh 
no,'  I  would  say,  'my  French  is  wretched,'  rather 
as  though  I  meant  that  a  member  of  the  French 
Academy  would  detect  lapses  from  pure  classicism 
in  it;  or  'No,  no,  mine  is,  French  j)our  rire,'  to 
imply  that  I  was  practically  bilingual.  Thus, 
during  the  years  when  I  lived  in  London,  I  very 
often  received  letters  from  hostesses  asking  me  to 
dine  on  the  night  when  Mme.  Chose  or  M.  Tel  was 
coming.  And  always  I  excused  myself — not  on 
the  plea  that  I  should  be  useless.  This  method  of 
mine  would  have  been  well  enough  from  any  but 
the  moral  standpoint,  had  not  Nemesis,  taking  her 
stand  on  that  point,  sometimes  ordained  that  a 


ON  SPEAKING  FRENCH  295 

Gaul  should  be  sprung  on  me.  It  was  not  well  with 
me  then.     It  was  downfall  and  disaster. 

Strange,  how  one  will  trifle  with  even  the  most 
imminent  doom.  On  being  presented  to  the  Gaul, 
I  always  hastened  to  say  that  I  spoke  his  or  her 
language  only  'un  tout  petit  peu' — knowing  well 
that  this  poor  spark  of  slang  would  kindle  within 
the  breast  of  M.  Tel  or  the  bosom  of  Mme.  Chose 
hopes  that  must  so  quicldy  be  quenched  in  the 
puddle  of  my  incompetence.  I  ofier  no  excuse  for 
so  foolish  a  proceeding.  I  -do  but  say  it  is  char- 
acteristic of  all  who  are  duffers  at  speaking  a 
foreign  tongue.  Great  is  the  pride  they  all  take 
in  airing  some  little  bit  of  idiom.  I  recall,  among 
many  other  pathetic  exemplifiers  of  the  foible,  an 
elderly  and  rather  eminent  Greek,  who,  when  I 
v/as  introduced  to  him,  said  'I  am  jolly  glad  to 
meet  you,  Sir!'  and,  having  said  that  had  nothing 
whatever  else  to  say,  and  was  moreover  unable  to 
grasp  the  meaning  of  anything  said  by  me,  though 
I  said  the  simplest  tilings,  and  said  them  very 
slowly  and  clearly.  It  is  to  my  credit  that  in 
speaking  English  to  a  foreigner  I  do  always  try  to 
be  helpful.  I  bear  witness  against  Mme.  Chose  and 
M.  Tel  that  for  me  they  have  never  made  a  like 
effort  in  their  French.  It  is  said  that  French 
people  do  not  really  speak  faster  than  we,  and  that 
their  seeming  to  do  so  is  merely  because  of  their 
lighter  stress  on  syllables.     If  this  is  true,  I  wish 


296  AND  EVEN  NOW 

that  for  my  sake  they  would  stress  their  syllables 
a  little  more  heavily.  By  their  omission  of  this 
kindness  I  am  so  often  baffled  as  to  their  meaning. 
To  be  shamed  as  a  talker  is  bad  enough ;  it  is  even 
worse  to  be  shamed  in  the  humble  refuge  of  listener. 
To  listen  and  from  time  to  time  murmur  'C'est 
vrai'  may  seem  safe  enough;  yet  there  is  danger 
even  here.  I  wish  I  could  forget  a  certain  luncheon 
in  the  course  of  which  Mme.  Chose  (that  brilliant 
woman)  leaned  suddenly  across  the  table  to  me, 
and,  with  great  animation,  amidst  a  general  hush, 
launched  at  me  a  particularly  swift  flight  of  winged 
words.  With  pensively  narrowed  eyes,  I  uttered 
my  formula  when  she  ceased.  This  formula  she 
repeated,  in  a  tone  even  more  pensive  than  mine. 
*Mais  je  ne  le  connais  pas,'  she  then  loudly  ex- 
claimed, '  Je  ne  connais  pas  meme  le  nom.  Dites- 
moi  de  ce  jeune  homme.'  She  had,  as  it  presently 
turned  out,  been  asking  me  which  of  the  younger 
French  novelists  was  most  highly  thought  of  by 
English  critics ;  so  that  her  surprise  at  never  having 
heard  of  the  gifted  young  Sevr6  was  natural 
enough. 

We  all — but  no,  I  must  not  say  that  we  all  have 
painful  memories  of  this  Idnd.  Some  of  us  can 
understand  every  word  that  flies  from  the  lips  of 
Mme.  Chose  or  from  the  mouth  of  M.  Tel.  Some 
of  us  can  also  talk  quickly  and  well  to  either  of 
these  pilgrims;   and  others  can  do  the  trick  pass- 


ON  SPEAKING  FRENCH  297 

ably.  But  the  duffers  are  in  a  great  grim  majority; 
and  the  mischief  that  French  causes  among  us  is 
mainly  manifest,  not  (I  would  say)  by  weaker 
brethren  hating  the  stronger,  but  by  weak  ones 
hating  the  less  weak. 

As  French  is  a  subject  on  which  we  all  feel  so 
keenly,  a  point  of  honour  on  which  we  are  all  so 
sensitive,  how  comes  it  that  our  general  achieve- 
ment is  so  slight.?  There  was  no  lack  of  hopes, 
of  plans,  that  we  should  excel.  In  many  cases 
Time  was  taken  for  us  by  the  forelock,  and  a  French 
nurse  installed.  But  alas!  little  children  are  wax 
to  receive  and  to  retain.  They  will  be  charmingly 
fluent  speakers  of  French  within  six  weeks  of 
Mariette's  arrival,  and  will  have  forgotten  every 
word  of  it  within  as  brief  an  interval  after  her 
departure.  Later,  their  minds  become  more  reten- 
tive, though  less  absorbent;  and  then,  by  all 
means,  let  French  be  taught.  Taught  it  is.  At 
the  school  where  I  was  reared  there  were  four 
French  masters;  four;  but  to  what  purpose? 
Their  class-rooms  were  scenes  of  eternal  and  in- 
credible pandemonium,  filled  with  whoops  and  cat- 
calls, with  devil's  tattoos  on  desks,  and  shrill  in- 
quiries for  the  exact  date  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 
Nor  was  the  lot  of  those  four  men  exceptional  in 
its  horror.  From  the  accounts  given  to  me  by 
*old  boys'  of  other  schools  I  have  gathered  that 
it  was  the  common  lot  of  French  masters  on  our 


298  AND  EVEN  NOW 

shores;  and  I  have  often  wondered  how  much  of 
the  Anglophobia  recurrent  among  Frenchmen  in 
the  nineteenth  century  was  due  to  the  grisly  tales 
told  by  those  of  them  who  had  returned  from  our 
seminaries  to  die  on  their  own  soil.  Since  1914, 
doubtless,  French  masters  have  had  a  very  good 
time  in  England.  But,  even  so,  I  doubt  whether 
they  have  been  achieving  much  in  the  way  of 
tutelage.  With  the  best  will  in  the  world,  a  boy 
will  profit  but  little  by  three  or  four  lessons  a  week 
(which  are  the  utmost  that  our  system  allows  him) . 
W'hat  he  wants,  or  at  any  rate  will  want,  is  to  be 
able  to  cope  with  Mme.  Chose.  A  smattering  of  the 
irregular  verbs  will  not  much  avail  him  in  that 
emprise.  Not  in  the  dark  by-ways  of  conjugation, 
but  on  the  sunny  field  of  frank  social  intercourse, 
must  he  prove  his  knighthood.  I  would  recom- 
mend that  every  boy,  on  reaching  the  age  of  six- 
teen, should  be  hurled  across  the  Channel  into  the 
midst  of  some  French  family  and  kept  there  for 
six  months.  At  the  end  of  that  time  let  him  be 
returned  to  his  school,  there  to  make  up  for  lost 
time.  Time  well  lost,  though:  for  the  boy  will 
have  become  fluent  in  French,  and  will  ever  remain 
so. 

Fluency  is  all.  If  the  boy  has  a  good  ear,  he 
will  speak  with  a  good  accent;  but  his  accent  is 
a  point  about  which  really  he  needn't  care  a  jot. 
So  is  his  syntax.     Not  with  these  will  he  win  the 


ON  SPEAKING  FRENCH  299 

heart  of  Mme.  Chose,  not  with  these  the  esteem  of 
M.  Tel,  not  with  these  anything  but  a  more  acrid 
rancour  in  the  silly  hostility  of  his  competitors.  If 
a  foreigner  speaks  English  to  us  easily  and  quickly, 
we  demand  no  more  of  him;  we  are  satisfied,  we 
are  delighted,  and  any  mistakes  of  grammar  or 
pronunciation  do  but  increase  the  charm,  investing 
with  more  than  its  intrinsic  quality  any  good  thing 
said — making  us  marvel  at  it  and  exchange  fatuous 
glances  over  it,  as  we  do  when  a  little  child  says 
something  sensible.  But  heaven  protect  us  from 
the  foreigner  who  pauses,  searches,  fumbles,  revises, 
comes  to  standstills,  has  recourse  to  dumb-show! 
Away  with  him,  by  the  first  train  to  Dover !  And 
this,  we  may  be  sure,  is  the  very  train  M.  Tel  and 
Mme.  Chose  would  like  to  catch  whenever  they 
meet  me — or  you.^ 


LAUGHTER 


LAUGHTER 

ig2o. 

MBERGSON,  in  his  well-known  essay  on 
this  theme,  says  .  .  .  well,  he  says  many 
*  things;  but  none  of  these,  though  I  have 
just  read  them,  do  I  clearly  remember,  nor  am  I 
sure  that  in  the  act  of  reading  I  understood  any 
of  them.  That  is  the  worst  of  these  fashionable 
philosophers — or  rather,  the  worst  of  me.  Some- 
how I  never  manage  to  read  them  till  they  are  just 
going  out  of  fashion,  and  even  then  I  don't  seem 
able  to  cope  with  them.  About  tw^elve  years  ago, 
when  every  one  suddenly  talked  to  me  about 
Pragmatism  and  William  James,  I  found  myself 
moved  by  a  dull  but  irresistible  impulse  to  try 
Schopenhauer,  of  whom,  years  before  that,  I  had 
heard  that  he  was  the  easiest  reading  in  the  world, 
and  the  most  exciting  and  amusing.  I  wrestled 
with  Schopenliauer  for  a  day  or  so,  in  vain.  Time 
passed;  M.  Bergson  appeared  'and  for  his  hour 
was  lord  of  the  ascendant';  I  tardily  tackled 
William  James.  I  bore  in  mind,  as  I  approached 
him,  the  testimonials  that  had  been  lavished  on 
him  by  all  my  friends.     Alas,  I  was  insensible  to 

303 


304  AND  EVEN  NOW 

his  thrllllngness.  His  gaiety  did  not  make  me  gay. 
His  crystal  clarity  confused  me  dreadfully.  I  could 
make  nothing  of  William  James.  And  now,  in  the 
fullness  of  time,  I  have  been  floored  by  M.  Bergson. 
It  distresses  me,  this  failure  to  keep  pace  with 
the  leaders  of  thought  as  they  pass  into  oblivion. 
It  makes  me  wonder  whether  I  am,  after  all,  an 
absolute  fool.  Yet  surely  I  am  not  that.  Tell  me 
of  a  man  or  a  woman,  a  place  or  an  event,  real  or 
fictitious :  surely  you  will  find  me  a  fairly  intelligent 
listener.  Any  such  narrative  will  present  to  me 
some  image,  and  will  stir  me  to  not  altogether 
fatuous  thoughts.  Come  to  me  in  some  grievous 
difficulty:  I  will  talk  to  you  like  a  father,  even  like 
a  lawyer.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  haven't  a  certain 
mellow  wisdom.  But  if  you  are  by  way  of  weaving 
theories  as  to  the  nature  of  things  in  general,  and 
if  you  want  to  try  those  theories  on  some  one 
who  will  luminously  confirm  them  or  powerfully 
rend  them,  I  must,  with  a  hang-dog  air,  warn  you 
that  I  am  not  your  man.  I  suffer  from  a  strong 
suspicion  that  things  in  general  cannot  be  ac- 
counted for  through  any  formula  or  set  of  formulae, 
and  that  any  one  philosophy,  howsoever  new,  is  no 
better  than  another.  That  is  in  itself  a  sort  of  philos- 
ophy, and  I  suspect  it  accordingly;  but  it  has  for  me 
the  merit  of  being  the  only  one  I  can  make  head  or 
tail  of.  If  you  try  to  expound  any  other  philo- 
sophic  system   to  me,  you  will   find   not  merely 


LAUGHTER  305 

that  I  can  detect  no  flaw  in  it  (except  the  one  great 
flaw  just  suggested),  but  also  that  I  haven't,  after 
a  minute  or  two,  the  vaguest  notion  of  what  you 
are  driving  at.  'Very  well,'  you  say,  'instead  of 
trying  to  explain  all  things  all  at  once,  I  will  explain 
some  little,  simple,  single  thing.'  It  was  for  sake 
of  such  shorn  lambs  as  mj^self,  doubtless,  that 
M.  Bergson  sat  down  and  wrote  about — Laughter. 
But  I  have  profited  by  his  kindness  no  more  than 
if  he  had  been  treating  of  the  Cosmos.  I  cannot 
tread  even  a  limited  space  of  air.  I  have  a  gross 
satisfaction  in  the  crude  fact  of  being  on  hard 
ground  again,  and  I  utter  a  coarse  peal  of — 
Laughter. 

At  least,  I  say  I  do  so.  In  point  of  fact,  I  have 
merely  smiled.  Twenty  years  ago,  ten  years  ago, 
I  should  have  laughed,  and  have  professed  to  you 
that  I  had  merely  smiled.  A  very  young  man  is 
not  content  to  be  very  young,  nor  even  a  young 
man  to  be  young :  he  wants  to  share  the  dignity  of 
his  elders.  There  is  no  dignity  in  laughter,  there 
is  much  of  it  in  smiles.  Laughter  is  but  a  joyous 
surrender,  smiles  give  token  of  mature  criticism. 
It  may  be  that  in  the  early  ages  of  this  world  there 
was  far  more  laughter  than  is  to  be  heard  now, 
and  that  aeons  hence  laughter  will  be  obsolete, 
and  smiles  universal — every  one,  always,  mildly, 
slightly,  smiling.  But  it  is  less  useful  to  speculate 
as  to  mankind's  past  and  future  than  to  observe 


306  AND  EVEN  NOW 

men.  And  you  will  have  observed  with  me  in  the 
club-room  that  young  men  at  most  times  look 
solemn,  whereas  old  men  or  men  of  middle  age 
mostly  smile;  and  also  that  those  young  men  do 
often  laugh  loud  and  long  among  themselves, 
while  we  others — the  gayest  and  best  of  us  in  the 
most  favourable  circumstances— seldom  achieve 
more  than  our  habitual  act  of  smiling.  Does  the 
sound  of  that  laughter  jar  on  us.^^  Do  we  liken  it 
to  the  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot.^^  Let  us 
do  so.  There  is  no  cheerier  sound.  But  let  us  not 
assume  it  to  be  the  laughter  of  fools  because  we 
sit  quiet.  It  is  absurd  to  disapprove  of  what  one 
envies,  or  to  wish  a  good  thing  were  no  more  be- 
cause it  has  passed  out  of  our  possession. 

But  (it  seems  that  I  must  begin  every  paragraph 
by  questioning  the  sincerity  of  what  I  have  just 
said)  has  the  gift  of  laughter  been  withdrawn  from 
me?  I  protest  that  I  do  still,  at  the  age  of  forty- 
seven,  laugh  often  and  loud  and  long.  But  not,  I 
believe,  so  long  and  loud  and  often  as  in  my  less 
smiling  youth.  And  I  am  proud,  nowadays,  of 
laughing,  and  grateful  to  any  one  who  makes  me 
laugh.  That  is  a  bad  sign.  I  no  longer  take 
laughter  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  realise,  even  after 
reading  M.  Bergson  on  it,  how  good  a  thing  it  is. 
I  am  qualified  to  praise  it. 

As  to  what  is  most  precious  among  the  accessories 
to  the  world  we  live  in,  different  men  hold  different 


LAUGHTER  307 

opinions.  There  are  people  whom  the  sea  de- 
presses, whom  mountains  exhilarate.  Personally, 
I  want  the  sea  always — some  not  populous  edge 
of  it  for  choice;  and  with  it  sunshine,  and  wine, 
and  a  little  music.  My  friend  on  the  mountain 
yonder  is  of  tougher  fibre  and  sterner  outlook, 
disapproves  of  the  sea's  laxity  and  instability, 
has  no  ear  for  music  and  no  palate  for  the  grape, 
and  regards  the  sun  as  a  rather  enervating  in- 
stitution, like  central  heating  in  a  house.  What  he 
likes  is  a  grey  day  and  the  wind  in  his  face;  crags 
at  a  great  altitude;  and  a  flask  of  whisky.  Yet 
I  think  that  even  he,  if  we  were  trying  to  determine 
from  what  inner  sources  mankind  derives  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  life,  would  agree  with  me  that 
only  the  emotion  of  love  takes  higher  rank  than 
the  emotion  of  laughter.  Both  these  emotions  are 
partly  mental,  partly  physical.  It  is  said  that  the 
mental  symptoms  of  love  are  wholly  physical  in 
origin.  They  are  not  the  less  ethereal  for  that. 
The  physical  sensations  of  laughter,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  reached  by  a  process  whose  starting- 
point  is  in  the  mind.  They  are  not  the  less  'glori- 
ously of  our  clay.'  There  is  laughter  that  goes 
so  far  as  to  lose  all  touch  with  its  motive,  and  to 
exist  only,  grossly,  in  itself.  This  is  laughter  at  its 
best.  A  man  to  whom  such  laughter  has  often 
been  granted  may  happen  to  die  in  a  work-house. 
No  matter.     I  will  not  admit  that  he  has  failed  in 


308  AND  EVEN  NOW 

life.  Another  man,  who  has  never  laughed  thus, 
may  be  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  leaving  more 
than  a  million  pounds  overhead.  What  then?  I 
regard  him  as  a  failure. 

Nor  does  it  seem  to  me  to  matter  one  jot  how 
such  laughter  is  achieved.  Humour  may  rollick 
on  high  planes  of  fantasy  or  in  depths  of  silliness. 
To  many  people  it  appeals  only  from  those  depths. 
If  it  appeal  to  them  irresistibly,  they  are  more 
enviable  than  those  who  are  sensitive  only  to  the 
finer  kind  of  joke  and  not  so  sensitive  as  to  be 
mastered  and  dissolved  by  it.  Laughter  is  a  thing 
to  be  rated  according  to  its  own  intensity. 

Many  years  ago  I  wrote  an  essay  in  which  I 
poured  scorn  on  the  fun  purveyed  by  the  music 
halls,  and  on  the  great  public  for  which  that  fun 
was  quite  good  enough.  I  take  that  callow  scorn 
back.  I  fancy  that  the  fun  itself  was  better  than 
it  seemed  to  me,  and  might  not  have  displeased 
me  if  it  had  been  w  af  ted  to  me  in  private,  in  presence 
of  a  few  friends.  A  public  crowd,  because  of  a  lack 
of  broad  impersonal  humanity  in  me,  rather  in- 
sulates than  absorbs  me.  Amidst  the  guffaws  of  a 
thousand  strangers  I  become  unnaturally  grave. 
If  these  people  were  the  entertainment,  and  I  the 
audience,  I  should  be  sympathetic  enough.  But 
to  be  one  of  them  is  a  position  that  drives  me 
spiritually  aloof.  Also,  there  is  to  me  something 
rather  dreary  in  the  notion  of  going  anywhere 


LAUGHTER  309 

for  the  specific  purpose  of  being  amused.  I  prefer 
that  laughter  shall  take  me  unawares.  Only  so  can 
it  master  and  dissolve  me.  And  in  this  respect, 
at  any  rate,  I  am  not  peculiar.  In  music  halls  and 
such  places,  you  may  hear  loud  laughter,  but — 
not  see  silent  laughter,  not  see  strong  men  weak, 
helpless,  suffering,  gradually  convalescent,  danger- 
ously relapsing.  Laughter  at  its  greatest  and  best 
is  not  there. 

To  such  laughter  nothing  is  more  propitious  than 
an  occasion  that  demands  gravity.  To  have  good 
reason  for  not  laughing  is  one  of  the  surest  aids. 
Laughter  rejoices  in  bonds.  If  music  halls  were 
schoolrooms  for  us,  and  the  comedians  were  our 
schoolmasters,  how  much  less  talent  would  be 
needed  for  giving  us  how  much  more  joy!  Even 
in  private  and  accidental  intercourse,  few  are  the 
men  whose  humour  can  reduce  us,  be  we  never  so 
susceptible,  to  paroxysms  of  mirth.  I  will  wager 
that  nine  tenths  of  the  world's  best  laughter  is 
laughter  aty  not  with.  And  it  is  the  people  set  in 
authority  over  us  that  touch  most  surely  our  sense 
of  the  ridiculous.  Freedom  is  a  good  thing,  but  we 
lose  through  it  golden  moments.  The  school- 
master to  his  pupils,  the  monarch  to  his  courtiers,' 
the  editor  to  his  staff — how  priceless  they  are! 
Reverence  is  a  good  thing,  and  part  of  its  value 
is  that  the  more  we  revere  a  man,  the  more  sharply 
are  we  struck  by  anything  in  him  (and  there  is 


310  AND  EVEN  NOW 

always  much)  that  is  incongruous  with  his  great- 
ness. And  herein  hes  one  of  the  reasons  why  as 
we  grow  older  we  laugh  less.  The  men  we  es- 
teemed so  great  are  gathered  to  their  fathers.  Some 
of  our  coevals  may,  for  aught  we  know,  be  very 
great,  but  good  heavens!  we  can't  esteem  therii  so. 
Of  extreme  laughter  I  know  not  in  any  annals 
a  more  satisfying  example  than  one  that  is  to  be 
found  in  Moore's  Life  of  Byron.  Both  Byron  and 
Moore  were  already  in  high  spirits  when,  on  an 
evening  in  the  spring  of  1813,  they  went  'from 
some  early  assembly'  to  Mr.  Rogers'  house  in 
St.  James's  Place  and  were  regaled  there  with  an 
impromptu  meal.  But  not  high  spirits  alone  would 
have  led  the  two  young  poets  to  such  excess  of 
laughter  as  made  the  evening  so  very  memorable. 
Luckily  they  both  venerated  Rogers  (strange  as  it 
may  seem  to  us)  as  the  greatest  of  living  poets. 
Luckily,  too,  Mr.  Rogers  was  ever  the  kind  of  man, 
the  coldly  and  quietly  suave  kind  of  man,  with 
whom  you  don't  take  liberties,  if  you  can  help  it — 
with  whom,  if  you  cayit  help  it,  to  take  liberties 
is  in  itself  a  most  exhilarating  act.  And  he  had 
just  received  a  presentation  copy  of  Lord  Thurlow's 
latest  book,  'Poems  on  Several  Occasions.'  The 
two  young  poets  found  in  this  elder's  Muse  much 
that  was  so  execrable  as  to  be  delightful.  They 
were  soon,  as  they  turned  the  pages,  held  in  throes 
of  laughter,  laughter  that  was  but  intensified  by 


LAUGHTER  Sll 

the  endeavours  of  their  correct  and  nettled  host  to 
point  out  the  genuine  merits  of  his  friend's  work. 
And  then  suddenly — oh  joy! — 'we  lighted,'  Moore 
records, '  on  the  discovery  that  our  host,  in  addition 
to  his  sincere  approbation  of  some  of  this  book's 
contents,  had  also  the  motive  of  gratitude  for 
standing  by  its  author,  as  one  of  the  poems  was  a 
warm  and,  I  need  not  add,  well-deserved  panegyric 
on  himself.  We  were,  however' — the  narrative 
has  an  added  charm  from  Tom  Moore's  demure 
care  not  to  offend  or  compromise  the  still-surviving 
Rogers — 'too  far  gone  in  nonsense  for  even  this 
eulogy,  in  which  we  both  so  heartily  agreed,  to  stop 
us.  The  opening  line  of  the  poem,  was,  as  well  as 
I  can  recollect,  "When  Rogers  o'er  this  labour 
bent";  and  Lord  Byron  undertook  to  read  it 
aloud; — but  he  found  it  impossible  to  get  beyond 
the  first  two  words.  Our  laughter  had  now  in- 
creased to  such  a  pitch  that  nothing  could  restrain 
it.  Two  or  three  times  he  began;  but  no  sooner 
had  the  words  "When  Rogers"  passed  his  lips, 
than  our  fit  burst  out  afresh, — till  even  Mr.  Rogers 
himself,  with  all  his  feeling  of  our  injustice,  found  it 
impossible  not  to  join  us;  and  we  were,  at  last, 
all  three  in  such  a  state  of  inextinguishable  laughter, 
that,  had  the  author  himself  been  of  our  party, 
I  question  much  whether  he  could  have  resisted 
the  infection.'  The  final  fall  and  dissolution  of 
Rogers,   Rogers  behaving  as  badly  as  either  of 


312  AND  EVEN  NOW 

tnem,  is  all  that  was  needed  to  give  perfection  to 
this  heart-warniing  scene.  I  like  to  think  that 
on  a  certain  night  in  spring,  year  after  year,  three 
ghosts  revisit  that  old  room  and  (without,  I  hope, 
inconvenience  to  Lord  Northcliff  e,  who  may  happen 
to  be  there)  sit  rocking  and  writhing  in  the  grip 
of  that  old  shared  rapture.  Uncanny?  "Well, 
not  more  so  than  would  have  seemed  to  Byron 
and  Moore  and  Rogers  the  notion  that  more  than  a 
hundred  years  away  from  them  was  some  one 
joining  in  their  laughter — as  I  do. 

Alas,  I  cannot  join  in  it  more  than  gently. 
To.  imagine  a  scene,  however  vividly,  does  not  give 
us '  the  sense  of  being  or  even  of  having  been, 
present  at  it.  Indeed,  the  greater  the  glow  of  the 
scene  reflected,  the  sharper  is  the  pang  of  our 
realisation  that  we  were  not  there,  and  of  our 
annoyance  that  we  weren't.  Such  a  pang  comes 
to  me  with  special  force  whenever  my  fancy  posts 
itself  outside  the  Temple's  gate  in  Fleet  Street, 
and  there,  at  a  late  hour  of  the  night  of  May  10th, 
1773,  observes  a  gigantic  old  man  laughing  wildly, 
but  having  no  one  with  him  to  share  and  aggrandise 
his  emotion.  Not  that  he  is  alone;  but  the  young 
man  beside  him  laughs  only  in  politeness  and  is 
inwardly  puzzled,  even  shocked.  Boswell  has  a 
keen,  an  exquisitely  keen,  scent  for  comedy,  for  the 
fun  that  is  latent  in  fine  shades  of  character; 
but  imaginative  burlesque,  anything  that  borders 


LAUGHTER  313 

on  lovely  nonsense,  he  was  not  formed  to  savour. 
All  the  more  does  one  revel  in  his  account  of  what 
led  up  to  the  moment  when  Johnson  'to  support 
himself,  laid  hold  of  one  of  the  posts  at  the  side  of 
the  foot  pavement,  and  sent  forth  peals  so  loud 
that  in  the  silence  of  the  night  his  voice  seemed  to 
resound  from  Temple  Bar  to  Fleet  Ditch.' 

No  evening  ever  had  an  unlikelier  ending.  The 
omens  were  all  for  gloom.  Johnson  had  gone  to 
dine  at  General  Paoli's  but  was  so  ill  that  he  had 
to  leave  before  the  meal  was  over.  Later  he 
managed  to  go  to  Mr.  Chambers'  rooms  in  the 
Temple.  'He  continued  to  be  very  ill'  there, 
but  gradually  felt  better,  and  '  talked  with  a  noble 
enthusiasm  of  keeping  up  the  representation  of 
respectable  families,'  and  was  great  on  'the  dignity 
and  propriety  of  male  succession.'  Among  his 
listeners,  as  it  happened,  was  a  gentleman  for  whom 
Mr.  Chambers  had  that  day  drawn  up  a  will  devis- 
ing his  estate  to  his  three  sisters.  The  news  of  this 
might  have  been  expected  to  make  Johnson  violent 
in  wrath.  But  no,  for  some  reason  he  grew  violent 
only  in  laughter,  and  insisted  thenceforth  on  calling 
that  gentleman  The  Testator  and  chaffing  him 
without  mercy.  'I  daresay  he  thinks  he  has 
done  a  mighty  thing.  He  won't  stay  till  he  gets 
home  to  his  seat  in  the  country,  to  produce  this 
wonderful  deed:  he'll  call  up  the  landlord  of  the 
first  inn  on  the  road;  and  after  a  suitable  preface 


314  AND  EVEN  NOW 

upon  mortality  and  the  uncertainty  of  life,  will  tell 
him  that  he  should  not  delay  in  making  his  will; 
and  Here,  Sir,  will  he  say,  is  my  will,  which  I  have 
just  made,  with  the  assistance  of  one  of  the  ablest 
lawyers  in  the  Idngdom;  and  he  will  read  it  to 
him.  He  believes  he  has  made  this  will;  but  he 
did  not  make  it;  you.  Chambers,  made  it  for 
him.  I  hope  you  have  had  more  conscience  than 
to  make  him  say  "being  of  sound  understanding!" 
ha,  ha,  ha!  I  hope  he  has  left  me  a  legacy.  I'd 
have  his  will  turned  into  verse,  like  a  ballad.' 
These  flights  annoyed  Mr.  Chambers,  and  are  re- 
corded by  Boswell  with  the  apology  that  he  wishes 
his  readers  to  be  'acquainted  with  the  slightest 
occasional  characteristics  of  so  eminent  a  man.* 
Certainly,  there  is  nothing  ridiculous  in  the  fact  of 
a  man  making  a  will.  But  this  is  the  measure 
of  Johnson's  achievement.  He  had  created 
gloriously  much  out  of  nothing  at  all.  There  he 
sat,  old  and  ailing  and  unencouraged  by  the  com- 
pany, but  soaring  higher  and  higher  in  absurdity, 
more  and  more  rejoicing,  and  still  soaring  and 
rejoicing  after  he  had  gone  out  into  the  night  with 
Boswell,  till  at  last  in  Fleet  Street  his  paroxysms 
were  too  much  for  him  and  he  could  no  more. 
Echoes  of  that  huge  laughter  come  ringing  down 
the  ages.  But  is  there  also  perhaps  a  note  of 
sadness  for  us  in  them?  Johnson's  endless 
sociability  came  of  his  inherent  melancholy:  he 
could  not  bear  to  be  alone;    and  his  very  mirth 


LAUGHTER  315 

was  but  a  mode  of  escape  from  the  dark  thoughts 
within  him.  Of  these  the  thought  of  death  was  the 
m.ost  dreadful  to  him,  and  the  most  insistent.  He 
was  forever  wondering  how  death  would  come  to 
him,  and  how  he  would  acquit  himself  in  the  ex- 
treme moment.  A  later  but  not  less  devoted 
Anglican,  meditating  on  his  own  end,  wrote  in  his 
diary  that  'to  die  in  church  appears  to  be  a  great 
euthanasia,  but  not,'  he  quaintly  and  touchingly 
added,  'at  a  time  to  disturb  worshippers.'  Both 
the  sentiment  here  expressed  and  the  reservation 
drawn  would  have  been  as  characteristic  of  Johnson 
as  they  were  of  Gladstone.  But  to  die  of  laughter 
— this,  too,  seems  to  me  a  great  euthanasia;  and 
I  think  that  for  Johnson  to  have  died  thus,  that 
night  in  Fleet  Street,  would  have  been  a  grand 
ending  to  'a  life  radically  wretched.'  Well,  he  was 
destined  to  outlive  another  decade;  and,  selfishly, 
who  can  wish  such  a  life  as  his,  or  such  a  Life  as 
Bos  well's,  one  jot  shorter  .'^ 

Strange,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  that  of  all 
the  countless  folk  who  have  lived  before  our  time 
on  this  planet  not  one  is  known  in  history  or  in 
legend  as  having  died  of  laughter.  Strange,  too, 
that  not  to  one  of  all  the  characters  in  romance 
has  such  an  end  been  allotted.  Has  it  ever  struck 
you  what  a  chance  Shakespeare  missed  when  he 
was  finishing  the  Second  Part  of  King  Henry  the 
Fourth?  Falstaff  was  not  the  man  to  stand 
cowed    and    bowed    while   the   new    young   king 


316  AND  EVEN  NOW 

lectured  him  and  east  him  off.  Little  by  little,  as 
Hal  proceeded  in  that  portentous  allocution,  the 
humour  of  the  situation  would  have  mastered  old 
Sir  John.  His  face,  blank  with  surprise  at  first, 
would  presently  have  glowed  and  widened,  and  his 
whole  bulk  have  begun  to  quiver.  Lest  he  should 
miss  one  word,  he  would  have  mastered  himself. 
But  the  final  words  would  have  been  the  signal  for 
release  of  all  the  roars  pent  up  in  him;  the  welkin 
would  have  rung;  the  roars,  belike,  would  have 
gradually  subsided  in  dreadful  rumblings  of  more 
than  utterable  or  conquerable  mirth.  Thus  and 
thus  only  might  his  life  have  been  rounded  off  with 
dramatic  fitness,  secundum  ipsius  naturam.  He 
never  should  have  been  left  to  babble  of  green  fields 
and  die  '  an  it  had  been  any  christom  child.' 

Falstaff  is  a  triumph  of  comedic  creation  because 
w^e  are  kept  laughing  equally  at  and  with  him. 
Nevertheless,  if  I  had  the  choice  of  sitting  with  him 
at  the  Boar's  Head  or  with  Johnson  at  the  Turk's, 
I  shouldn't  hesitate  for  an  instant.  The  agility  of 
Falstaff's  mind  gains  much  of  its  effect  by  contrast 
with  the  massiveness  of  his  body;  but  in  contrast 
with  Johnson's  equal  agility  is  Johnson's  moral  as 
well  as  physical  bulk.  His  sallies  'tell'  the  more 
startlingly  because  of  the  noble  weight  of  character 
behind  them :  they  are  the  better  because  he  makes 
them.  In  Falstaff  there  isn't  this  final  incongruity 
and  element  of  surprise.  Falstaff  is  but  a  sub- 
limated sample  of  'the  funny  man.'     We  cannot 


LAUGHTER  317 

therefore,  laugh  so  greatly  with  him  as  with  John- 
son. (Nor  even  a^  him;  because  we  are  not  tickled 
so  much  by  the  weak  points  of  a  character  whose 
points  are  all  weak  ones;  also  because  we  have  no 
reverence  trying  to  impose  restraint  upon  us.) 
Still,  Falstaff  has  indubitably  the  power  to  con- 
vulse us.  I  don't  mean  we  ever  are  convulsed  in 
reading  Henry  the  Fourth.  No  printed  page,  alas, 
can  thrill  us  to  extremities  of  laughter.  These  are 
ours  only  if  the  mirthmaker  be  a  living  man  whose 
jests  we  hear  as  they  come  fresh  from  his  own  lips. 
All  I  claim  for  Falstaif  is  that  he  would  be  able 
to  convulse  us  if  he  were  alive  and  accessible. 
Few,  as  I  have  said,  are  the  humourists  who  can 
induce  this  state.  To  master  and  dissolve  us,  to 
give  us  the  joy  of  being  worn  down  and  tired  out 
with  laughter,  is  a  success  to  be  won  by  no  man 
save  in  virtue  of  a  rare  staying-power.  Laughter 
becomes  extreme  only  if  it  be  consecutive.  There 
must  be  no  pauses  for  recovery.  Touch-and-go 
humour,  however  happy,  is  not  enough.  The  jester 
must  be  able  to  grapple  his  theme  and  hang  on  to 
it,  twisting  it  this  way  and  that,  and  making  it 
yield  magically  all  manner  of  strange  and  precious 
things,  one  after  another,  without  pause.  He  must 
have  invention  keeping  pace  with  utterance.  He 
must  be  inexhaustible.  Only  so  can  he  exhaust  us. 
I  have  a  friend  whom  I  would  praise.  There  are 
many  other  of  my  friends  to  whom  I  am  indebted 
for  much  laughter;   but  I  do  believe  that  if  all  of 


318  AND  EVEN  NOW 

them  sent  in  their  bills  to-morrow  and  all  of  them 
overcharged  me  not  a  little,  the  total  of  all  those 
totals  would  be  less  appalling  than  that  which 
looms  in  my  own  vague  estimate  of  what  I  owe  to 
Comus.  Comus  I  call  him  here  in  observance  of 
the  line  drawn  between  public  and  private  virtue, 
and  in  full  knowledge  that  he  would  of  all  men  be 
the  least  glad  to  be  quite  personally  thanked  and 
laurelled  in  the  market-place  for  the  hours  he  has 
made  memorable  among  his  cronies.  No  one  is  so 
diffident  as  he,  no  one  so  self-postponing.  Many 
people  have  met  him  again  and  again  without 
faintly  suspecting  *  anything  much '  in  him.  Many 
of  his  acquaintances — friends,  too — relatives,  even 
— have  lived  and  died  in  the  belief  that  he  was  quite 
ordinary.  Thus  is  he  the  more  greatly  valued  by 
his  cronies.  Thus  do  we  pride  ourselves  on  pos- 
sessing some  curious  right  quality  to  which  alone 
he  is  responsive.  But  it  would  seem  that  either 
this  asset  of  ours  or  its  effect  on  him  is  intermittent. 
He  can  be  dull  and  null  enough  with  us  sometimes — 
a  mere  asker  of  questions,  or  drawer  of  comparisons 
between  this  and  that  brand  of  cigarettes,  or  full 
expatiator  on  the  merits  of  some  new  patent  razor. 
A  whole  hour  and  more  may  be  wasted  in  such 
humdrum  and  darkness.  And  then — something 
will  have  happened.  There  has  come  a  spark  in  the 
murk;  a  flame  now,  presage  of  a  radiance:  Comus 
has  begun.  His  face  is  a  great  part  of  his  equip- 
ment.   A  cast  of  it  might  be  somewhat  akin  to  the 


LAUGHTER  319 

comic  mask  of  the  ancients;  but  no  cast  could  be 
worthy  of  it;  mobihty  is  the  essence  of  it.  It 
flickers  and  shifts  in  accord  to  the  matter  of  his 
discourse;  it  contracts  and  it  expands;  is  there 
anything  its  elastic  can't  express?  Comus  would 
be  eloquent  even  were  he  dumb.  And  he  is  melli- 
fluous. His  voice,  while  he  develops  an  idea  or 
conjures  up  a  scene,  takes  on  a  peculiar  richness 
and  unction.  If  he  be  describing  an  actual  scene, 
voice  and  face  are  adaptable  to  those  of  the  actual 
persons  therein.  But  it  is  not  in  such  mimicry 
that  he  excels.  As  a  reporter  he  has  rivals.  For 
the  most  part,  he  moves  on  a  higher  plane  than 
that  of  mere  fact:  he  imagines,  he  creates,  giving 
you  not  a  person,  but  a  type,  a  synthesis,  and  not 
what  anywhere  has  been,  but  what  anywhere 
might  be— what,  as  one  feels,  for  all  the  absurdity 
of  it,  just  would  be.  He  knows  his  world  well,  and 
nothing  human  is  alien  to  him,  but  certain  skeins  of 
life  have  a  special  hold  on  him,  and  he  on  them.  In 
his  youth  he  wished  to  be  aclergj'^man;  and  over  the 
clergy  of  all  grades  and  denominations  his  genius 
hovers  and  swoops  and  ranges  with  a  special 
mastery.  Lawyers  he  loves  less;  yet  the  legal 
mind  seems  to  lie  almost  as  wide-open  to  him  as  the 
sacerdotal;  and  the  legal  manner  in  all  its  phases 
he  can  unerringly  burlesque.  In  the  minds  of 
journalists,  diverse  journalists,  he  is  not  less 
thoroughly  at  home,  so  that  of  the  wild  contin- 
gencies imagined  by  him  there  is  none  about  which 


320  AND  EVEN  NOW 

he  cannot  reel  off  an  oral  'leader'  or  'middle'  in 
the  likeliest  style,  and  with  as  much  ease  as  he  can 
preach  a  High  Church  or  Low  Church  sermon  on  it. 
Nor  are  his  improvisations  limited  by  prose.  If  a 
theme  call  for  nobler  treatment,  he  becomes  an 
unflagging  fountain  of  ludicrously  adequate  blank- 
verse.  Or  again,  he  may  deliver  himself  in  rhyme. 
There  is  no  form  of  utterance  that  comes  amiss  to 
him  for  interpreting  the  human  comedy,  or  for 
broadening  the  farce  into  which  that  comedy  is 
turned  by  him.  Nothing  can  stop  him  v/hen  once 
he  is  in  the  vein.  No  appeals  move  him.  He  goes 
from  strength  to  strength  while  his  audience  is 
more  and  more  piteously  debilitated. 

What  a  gift  to  have  been  endowed  with !  What 
a  power  to  wield!  And  how  often  I  have  envied 
Comus!  But  this  envy  of  him  has  never  taken 
root  in  me.  His  mind  laughs,  doubtless,  at  his  own 
conceptions;  but  not  his  body.  And  if  you  tell 
him  something  that  you  have  been  sure  will  con- 
vulse him  you  are  likely  to  be  rewarded  with  no 
more  than  a  smile  betokening  that  he  sees  the  point. 
Incomparable  laughter-giver,  he  is  not  much  a 
laugher.  He  is  vintner,  not  toper.  I  would  there- 
fore not  change  places  with  him.  I  am  well  con- 
tent to  have  been  his  beneficiary  during  thirty 
years,  and  to  be  so  for  as  many  more  as  may  be 
given  us. 


Date  Dm 


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